


A Choreographer's Dilemma

by Mysecretfanmoments



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Sexual Frustration, Sharing a Bed, post ep 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: After their well-publicised kiss at the Cup of China, Viktor asks Yuuri what he wants him to be again. The answer may be different this time, but saying "yes" to a relationship doesn't mean you know how to have one.





	1. Nothing More

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Il dilemma del coreografo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634625) by [KateYuki87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateYuki87/pseuds/KateYuki87)
  * Translation into Русский available: [A Choreographer's Dilemma (Дилемма хореографа)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8748580) by [perfection_8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfection_8/pseuds/perfection_8)



It’s only a brush of wet warmth against his lips before they’re falling, and Viktor’s cheek is against his, and Viktor’s hand is curled protectively around the back of his skull—and then they hit the ice, and it’s a pain Yuuri is used to, but he doesn’t feel it. All he feels is Viktor’s weight and the phantom pressure of a kiss that lasted barely a second. Viktor pulls back to look at him.

“This was the only thing I could think of to surprise you more than you surprised me.”

There’s a saying in English—someone’s heart shining in their eyes, or being in their eyes, or something, and Yuuri thinks he understands it now as he gazes back at Viktor. This close, even a shortsighted guy like him can see. He wonders what Viktor sees in his face, whether he’s as easy to read as Viktor is.

“Really?” Yuuri is still trying to process the fact that Viktor kissed him in front of all these people, which has to be the point. He should be panicking.

He’s not.

_Viktor_. Ever since he was a child, that name’s carried a charge. It was the name of his idol, the name of a person he elevated above himself, the pinnacle of achievement—the person to aim for, if he was really serious about this ice skating thing. It had been a name so far from himself he’d felt no compunction calling his dog the same thing, the same way others named pets after their favourite fictional characters.

The name—the man—means so much more now.

Somehow they tear themselves away from each other long enough to leave the ice. Yuuri’s mind whirls in a blur of thoughts—good and bad—during the congratulations, the medal ceremony, the interviews. He’s sure he answers people when they ask him things, but his state of mind still makes everything hard to absorb, especially when everything is in his second language. He loses track of words, sentences, but he doesn’t ask anyone to repeat themselves. Viktor sticks by him, bragging—and glowing—enough for them both. When Yuuri changes back into his clothes he looks at his costume as if it might explain to him what’s happening, but all it does is shimmer softly as he stuffs it into his bag along with his track suit.

He and Viktor leave the complex together. The weight of Viktor’s arm across his shoulders, normally steadying, dizzies him now. The cameras and the constant buzzing of his phone in his pocket have him picturing himself from an outsider’s perspective, his face beside Viktor’s, their names linked in captions. _Is this really me? Is he really him?_

_Is this real?_

Viktor doesn’t comment on his dazed state. They get dragged along in Phichit’s celebration—no hardship—and Yuuri prepares for him to get sloppy drunk.

Instead, Viktor starts to tug him away from the bar by drink number two. Viktor’s only had enough to set a blush to his cheeks, his eyes still clear.

“Are we exploring the city again?” Yuuri asks. Now that they’re alone again he can’t stop his heart from pounding like he’s just come off the ice, though it makes little sense. He’s used to spending most of his waking moments with Viktor, and a good amount of his unconscious ones too; he’s used to Viktor throwing his arms around him at the least opportunity. It’s not the closeness that intimidates him now but the sense that there are things unspoken between them, or rather, that the things unspoken between them might be coming to light.

“No,” Viktor says. He wears a smile as he steers them back to the hotel.

“Ah,” is Yuuri’s only reply. He wishes Viktor might say something more to set him at ease, but he doesn’t, and the look on his face is hard to decipher. This mood isn’t one Yuuri recognises. _I guess I did surprise him_ , he thinks, wondering if he ought to regret it. No—he can’t. He can still see Viktor start to run to the edge of the ice, the panic/need/exhilaration of going to meet him there. Surprising Viktor was only the first step.

He doesn’t know step two or three or four, but he trusts they’ll come to him as he goes.

They wave at the front desk lady in the lobby of the hotel and pass smoothly into an empty elevator. It’s well-lit, and once upon a time that would have set Yuuri shrinking away, but he stands tall. He’s curious, intrigued by the glances Viktor steals at him.

_He kissed me on TV_ , Yuuri thinks. It wasn’t their first kiss, exactly. There was the kiss on his temple when Viktor was sleep-sodden after Yuuri had woken him up to show him a video. There was the peppering of kisses on his face the time he said something—he can’t now remember what—about the challenges to come. There were several soft, slow kisses when Viktor was particularly impressed; Viktor’s eyes had shone then too.

Those kisses seemed like a ploy. _Look at the attention I give you_ , they said. _Be more confident, practice harder, express more_. Yuuri couldn’t trust them, because Viktor was still experimenting at being a coach. He’d gone so far as to admit he’d be anything Yuuri wanted if it would drive him harder.

Crashing down to the ice, Yuuri had felt nothing but love, underpinned by Viktor’s unique brand of unpredictableness. Yuuri’s surprise had melted to pleasure before they even made impact.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Viktor says. His lilting tone renders it playful, but the sharp look in his eyes betrays something else.

Yuuri inclines his head. He could answer—but sometimes it’s more fun to leave Viktor hanging, and the ding of the elevator reaching their floor makes for a good excuse. They exit, and he ignores Viktor’s sidelong look.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says in a scolding tone; Yuuri can’t help smiling.

“Viktor?”

“You’re ignoring me.”

Yuuri throws him a wide-eyed look as they walk. “Does that sound like something I’d do?”

“Who knew you had this side to you?” Viktor asks, mock-hurt.

They stop in front of Yuuri’s door. No part of him is surprised when Viktor follows him in; he hits the light switch. “You’ve known for a while.”

Viktor’s grin is softened by the warmth in his eyes. “So I have.”

Yuuri hangs up his coat and turns to take Viktor’s, but Viktor stands with his arms at his sides, still smiling down at Yuuri. This really is a new mood. Part expectant, part—something else.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, but he seems to say it more to himself than to him. Yuuri’s heart drums a rhythm, and he wonders if his own reluctance to bring up the kiss is cowardice or cunning. Some things matter too much to consign them to deep discussion, he thinks; they can only be said lightly, or in gestures. They can be poured into movement on the ice, as Viktor and Yuuri both know, but to bring them up in a quiet hotel room—it feels wrong. Or is he just putting things off? Maybe if he’d been more willing to talk about his feelings he wouldn’t have had to explode at Viktor earlier; Viktor would have known not to threaten or test him before the competition. Maybe.

At last Yuuri stops waiting for Viktor to move. He unwinds Viktor’s scarf and shakes it out before hanging it up beside his own coat. Viktor stays motionless, watching, and Yuuri slips his hands under his open coat, moving it back over his shoulders. At last Viktor moves, letting the coat slide down his arms, and Yuuri catches it. It’s heavy, and if Yuuri puts his nose to the collar the scent there will remind him of euphoria and Viktor’s outflung arms, his mouth against his. It will smell like an arm thrown over his shoulders to gather him close and words whispered in his ear.

Yuuri shivers as he hangs the coat up. Viktor is less bulky now, but instead of being diminished he’s only grown more striking. Yuuri takes off his own shoes and leaves Viktor in the entryway to follow, or else to stand there and continue his enigmatic statue routine; Yuuri pulls out his phone and sits on the bed in the meantime.

“How many times should I offer?” Viktor asks at last, when Yuuri’s given up on him. He’s leaning against the wall of the entryway, his shoes still on.

Yuuri sets his phone down, ignoring the slew of missed calls. “Hm?”

“For you to say yes. Should I kiss you when I ask?”

A shiver races down Yuuri’s spine. He sits at attention as Viktor throws his shoes back towards the entryway and moves to join him, seating himself on the bed with one leg pulled up so he can face Yuuri completely. His hand comes up, touches Yuuri’s jaw.

“I don’t remember a question,” Yuuri mumbles. His gaze is on Viktor’s other hand between them, the elegantly curled fingers, the prominent knuckles, the bones in his wrist like the fine details of a sculpture.

“What do you want me to be?” Viktor asks. His voice is soft. “Don’t say you want me to be myself. I’m the most _myself_ person in the world.”

“Probably,” Yuuri agrees, thinking of the heedless way Viktor tears through life, his attention caught by everything bright and shiny and beautiful. It occurs to him that Viktor started by asking what would make him say _yes_ , and he draws himself back to the point. “ _What do you want me to be_ isn’t a yes/no question.”

He can’t stop looking at Viktor’s hand against the coverlet, relaxed beside his leg.

“Yuuri.”

He should have remembered the other hand on his jaw. It guides him now, turning his face gently to Viktor’s. He knows the kiss is coming, but somehow it still catches him unprepared, making his heart jump in his chest and his hands shake. His eyes close tightly, not with fear but with emotion—relief. He wants to always be kissing Viktor, to smell his light cologne and feel the tracing of Viktor’s fingertips against his skin, the soft opening of his mouth against his.

He presses a hand over his own heart. He was right; it’s racing. As the kiss deepens, the sweep of Viktor’s tongue against his own sends a wash of arousal through him, uncovering a more deep-seated need, and he finds himself reaching out for Viktor—but he pulls back at the last moment, twisting his hand into his own shirt. _Don’t_ , he scolds, but he can’t stop himself from kissing back with all the longing he fights to suppress; for once his mouth is the most honest part of him.

Viktor draws back too soon, and Yuuri has to curl his hands into fists to stop from grabbing him and pulling him back.

“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?” Viktor asks.

It’s the wrong phrasing. Yuuri isn’t a sick person needing attending to. He can’t stand _do you want me to be your boyfriend_ being in the same class of questions as _do you want a glass of water_.

“Do you want to be mine?” Yuuri asks, meeting Viktor’s gaze at last. It’s a forceful, almost angry retort—but Viktor’s smile is pure sunlight.

“Yes.”

There’s a roaring in his ears. “Because it’ll help me?”

Viktor shakes his head.

In Yuuri’s mind they’re falling again, crashing back onto the ice in front of hundreds of people. He’s feeling Viktor’s lips against his and hearing the rush of blood in his ears, the exhilaration of having done everything right. Not perfectly—he remembers the falls during his programme even if adrenaline blocks the pain—but to the limit of his abilities, and beyond Viktor’s expectations.

His face flushes with colour. He knows Viktor loves him in his own unique way, but as a lover, for his sake and not for Yuuri’s…?

Sensation trickles through the numb shock. Viktor is taking his hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of Yuuri’s wrist as he sets Yuuri’s palm against his cheek. “Well?”

“I never know,” Yuuri says slowly, “when you’re being serious.”

“Serious as the grave.” Viktor is smiling. “Serious as—ah—Georgi. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have offered the same just to coach you more effectively, but…”

“You would have become my lover just to motivate me?” Yuuri asks. He’d been right to worry. Some part of him had always known Viktor’s dedication to his craft—and pleasure—went beyond anything most people considered normal.

“Is that strange? You’re energetic, beautiful, talented. I would have enjoyed every moment.”

Yuuri’s glad he didn’t take those kisses to heart, heady as they’d been. His voice trembles as he asks, “And now?”

Viktor kisses the palm of Yuuri’s hand, then holds it in both his own, examining it. “Now I want nothing more. It’s been that way for a long time, though your performance tonight makes me even more sure.”

Yuuri looks up. By the warmth in his cheeks he expects he’s blushing, but he doesn’t try to hide it.

“It’s very hard,” Viktor continues, pulling back Yuuri’s sleeve to kiss further up the inside of his arm, “to keep my hands off you.”

For a moment, all Yuuri feels is a squirming need to crawl into Viktor’s lap, utterly seduced—and then he remembers what the past several months have consisted of. “You haven’t kept your hands off me at all!” he says, emerging from the haze of lust enough to scold. Trust Viktor to play the pining lover just because it suits him; he’s done whatever he wants from the start.

Viktor has the grace to laugh, throwing his head back. It’s a long laugh; his eyes squeeze shut with enjoyment before he calms and looks back at Yuuri, who tries not to be affected by the line of Viktor’s neck, his jaw, his hair falling softly over his forehead.

“You used to let me get away with things like that,” Viktor says.

“I was in awe. And younger. And I wasn’t used to you yet.”

“Used to me,” Viktor echoes. He sounds almost concerned.

“Don’t worry,” Yuuri says, low-voiced. “You’ll always be the most glamorous person of any room you happen to be in.”

“Even to you?”

“Especially to me.”

Viktor smiles. “Ah, Y _uu_ ri, that’s no good. _You’re_ meant to be the glamorous one now. As your coach, I disapprove.”

“And as my boyfriend?” Yuuri asks. It costs him nothing to say it, but he gets to watch Viktor’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth opening slightly. His cheeks flush—and Yuuri starts to suspect he wasn’t exaggerating when he said he didn’t want anything more than to be Yuuri’s partner.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri is knocked back onto the bed. Viktor climbs on top of him, bumping his glasses with his chin, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, the side of his nose. At last he dips down to claim Yuuri’s mouth again, hands cupping his face with all the finesse his approach lacked.

Yuuri melts into the bed. _Oh_ , he thinks, but no other thoughts are forthcoming. Of all possible responses, he hadn’t imagined Viktor climbing on top of him. He tries not to think of Viktor’s weight straddling his hips, not wanting to embarrass himself by hardening here, now. Very carefully, he sets a hand against Viktor’s side just to signal that he hasn’t fainted, and Viktor kisses him harder, with renewed passion. Yuuri’s hand fists in the fabric of Viktor’s shirt. He’s still holding himself motionless, careful not to give himself away, but he has to remind himself to breathe when he imagines sliding his hands into Viktor’s hair.

_Don’t_ , he thinks, just like before, but this _don’t_ is followed by a _why not?_

_Because you’re not Viktor_ , he thinks. _You can’t just…_

His hand travels up Viktor’s side, over his shoulder, finally alighting on Viktor’s scalp to caress his hair. _Soft_. Just like Yuuri had known it was. He remembers it long, when Viktor had been the most beautiful boy Yuuri had ever seen. He remembers it in Viktor’s face during a spin, a sight more erotic than Yuuri’s teenage boy brain had ever been able to come up with on its own. He remembers it in his own face, Viktor sleeping on his shoulder, all over him but still that last little bit out of reach.

_Help_ , he thinks, even as he kisses Viktor back. What is he meant to do with himself now?

Viktor notices Yuuri’s caress after a moment. He ends the kiss with a nudge of his nose, drawing back to gaze down at Yuuri. Whatever he sees in Yuuri’s face makes him grin, and the grin renders him several years younger—boyish.

“You mean it, don’t you?” he says.

Yuuri twirls a lock of pale hair around his finger, looking at it as if it’s the seventh wonder of the world. “Can you doubt it?” he asks, voice as vague as he feels.

Viktor grins again, and then his weight is gone. He’s pushing himself up, and then he’s pacing in front of the bed, hand at his mouth. Yuuri sits up, watching in bemusement.

“What…?” he asks.

Viktor rakes a hand through his hair, his face still pink. “A first lover has a great deal of responsibility,” he says, like that explains everything. “Almost as much as a coach. A lover-coach…”

Is he _brainstorming_? Is his mind jumping to plan out a relationship, the same way he’d choreograph a routine for on the ice? Yuuri fears as much.

“I don’t think you have to…” he says, trailing off. He puts up a hand. “I’m comfortable going along as we have been.”

Viktor has been at his side day and sometimes night. He’s kissed him several times, once in front of cameras. For some reason, the sleep-sodden kiss on his temple rises in Yuuri’s mind. He imagines waking Viktor up in the middle of the night and feeling the brush of Viktor’s lips in innocent greeting. Pleasure shivers through him, and he wonders if Viktor will be even more free with his touches now.

_Don’t think of that_ , Yuuri pleads with himself. He can’t think of those things in front of Viktor or he’ll get himself in trouble.

Viktor glances at Yuuri, obviously taking in his statement, but he continues to pace. It takes a while for him to come to a decision. What decision it is Yuuri can’t guess, but Viktor drops to his knees in front of him at last, taking his hands. “Do you trust me?”

Yuuri meets Viktor’s gaze. Viktor is a whirlwind, and often unknowable, and prone to forgetting the things he says from one day to the next—but it doesn’t make him untrustworthy. It makes him… fun. Exciting. Yuuri can never be bored with him around, and the world can never be boring with Viktor in it.

“Of course,” Yuuri says, and Viktor kisses the backs of his hands, first one and then the other. He smiles, and again Yuuri understands the meaning of that phrase, _his heart shining in his eyes_. Yuuri swallows hard.

“Perfect,” Viktor says, eyes narrowed with happiness—as if the lilt didn’t give it away. “I’m sleeping here tonight.”

Yuuri blinks. “I, uh—I don’t think—”

Viktor smiles, and he rises up on his knees to kiss Yuuri again. “I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says as he draws back. “As much as I can.”

The Viktor-translator in Yuuri’s brain changes that to _I won’t actively try to have sex with you_ , a mild assurance at best, but it still sets Yuuri at ease. He doesn’t think he’s ready to jump to another stepping stone just now. It’s enough to see Viktor gaze up at him with that expression, like Yuuri is his greatest achievement to date. It’s heady.

“Okay,” Yuuri says, and hopes his heart will calm down enough for sleep—eventually.


	2. Dreams and Wakefulness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd I held out for a week or two! I can't not write more for this, so here I am writing more. This chapter bumps up the rating to M. If steamy scenes make you uncomfortable, and you feel things escalating, ctrl+f to "he doesn't shift after that first" and you'll be past it.
> 
> NOTE ONE: if you want to read chapter one as a standalone, that's fine, don't read this! I just like to write multichaps rather than multiple fics.
> 
> NOTE TWO: the delicious headcanon about cologne comes from the wonderful suggestivescribe after we talked about outerwear, all credit to her.
> 
> NOTE THREE: I hope anyone reading this enjoys, and that this update comes as a pleasant surprise to some of the people who were kind enough to comment on chapter one!

A warm shower returns some semblance of order to Yuuri’s thoughts, though he spends the first five minutes indulging in mental screaming. The screams come in two general flavours: panic, and elation. Panic because he couldn’t possibly entice someone like Viktor for all time, couldn’t possibly live up to expectations—and elation, because he _had_ enticed Viktor. Viktor said he wanted _nothing more_.

Elation wins out eventually. His panic is only the self-doubt he’s fought all his life, and he knows it doesn’t contribute anything useful. Neither does elation, but it feels a lot better than its competitor. As Yuuri stands under the stream, the fall of water and the wash of memories are equally pleasant. He remembers Viktor’s weight on him, Viktor’s mouth. Eventually memories fall short and imagination kicks in.

He bites his lip. He can feel his body waking with arousal—can see it, even, since he’s staring down at his feet—but his hands hang by his sides. Perhaps he should jerk off so he doesn’t get hard in bed tonight, but how will he face it if he releases this tension now and Viktor reads it in his manner? Masturbating in the shower isn’t a glamorous way to start off a relationship, and Yuuri feels fourteen again, his own body strange and unfamiliar—intimidating, almost. There are so many things a body can long for, and it doesn’t know not to ask for them.

Eventually he rushes through the ritual of cleaning and leaves it at that, ignoring the siren’s call of release. He dries off and pulls on a T-shirt and boxers he took into the bathroom with him in case Viktor was in his room when he got out, then steps back into the hotel room that bore witness to his changed relationship status. For a moment it has the feel of a church hall, and then he sees Viktor sitting cross-legged on the bed over his phone—grey track suit bottoms, white T-shirt, just showered—and thinks it might just become his tomb.

How will he live through this?

“Yuuri!” Viktor says, seeing him. “We’re famous.”

Yuuri smiles slightly. “Oh? That’s new.”

Viktor grins. “No. _We’re_ famous.”

Yuuri wonders how Viktor’s classified the media circus up until this point. Quaint? Endearing? How many hits is _fame_ to him?

With a decisive sweep Viktor tosses the phone away, fame or lack thereof already forgotten, and the discarded phone skids to the other side of the bed while Viktor opens his arms and looks at Yuuri expectantly. Yuuri’s face floods with colour at the perfect, wish-fulfilling nature of the moment. Could he have dreamt it better? But in a dream he wouldn’t feel this non-dreamlike terror. It’s not that he doesn’t want to walk into Viktor’s waiting arms—quite the opposite—but the thought of being that close that fast is overwhelming. He approaches, and Viktor’s eyebrows lift with happiness—but Yuuri simply pushes one of his outstretched arms down, hands gentle.

“Are you trying to make me nervous?” he asks.

Viktor folds his hands in his lap, looking thoughtful. “No.”

Their eyes meet, and Yuuri feels electricity fizz through him. He’s unsure whether Viktor knows how tempting he looks just now, with his hair damp and comfortable clothes on, his posture easy. It’s utterly disarming. Those soft clothes could easily be pushed aside to—

_Stop._

Determined to cut the tension, Yuuri marches over to the other side of the bed and slides under the covers, placing his glasses on the bedside table. There. His shortsightedness is good for something at last: Viktor is less intimidating in lo-def, his outline blurred. Like this, Yuuri can meet his gaze without trembling.

“Ready for bed?” Viktor asks, and the odd hitch in his voice undoes all the good taking off his glasses did Yuuri.

“Yeah.”

Viktor stands to turn the bedside light on and the room light off. Yuuri steels himself when Viktor slides under the covers, backlit by his light. They lie facing each other, and at this distance Viktor’s smile is clear enough. He picks up one of Yuuri’s hands and pulls it to rest against his mouth. He breathes deeply, then sighs, breath skimming Yuuri’s knuckles.

“What?” Yuuri asks.

“I’m happy,” Viktor says. His smile is still there. He kisses Yuuri’s hand then cradles it against his face, and heat flushes up and down Yuuri’s body in unwanted response. He wants to squirm with it, but he forces himself to stay still. _I’m happy_ , he hears again. He knows Viktor is pretty good at doing whatever he wants, but being one of the things that make him happy is heady knowledge. _Viktor happy. Because of me._

His hand tightens on Viktor’s. _Me happy, because of him._ He’d never expected things to turn out like this, not even when he felt real affection from Viktor during their time in Hasetsu. How could he have?

Will Viktor’s interest last beyond the Grand Prix?

 _I don’t want to lose_ , he thinks desperately _._ It’s the same impulse that screams inside of him during performances, that unwillingness to give in, but love can’t be a performance—or if it can be, it shouldn’t. How will he keep Viktor’s interest as _himself_?

He forces himself to take deep, slow breaths. The panic subsides. Viktor isn’t a complete unknown anymore, and he isn’t as fickle as he seems. How could someone with a career as successful as Viktor’s be truly fickle? Yuuri repeats that to himself, talking himself through the bad patch, and as the fear leaves him his body goes weak with post-panic relief. Once he’s calm, he pulls the hand Viktor is nuzzling back without giving Viktor the chance to let it go, now able to brush kisses over Viktor’s hands in return. Viktor pulls as if to draw them back, but not very hard; Yuuri holds tight. He indulges himself, tracing his bottom lip over the rises and dips of Viktor’s knuckles.

 _Viktor’s hands._ He remembers these hands gesturing elegantly throughout the years, observed hungrily through often-replayed recordings of Viktor’s skating. He remembers them set casually on the bar between sips of saké, and he remembers them entwining with his. It’s almost too much—but only almost.

When Yuuri looks up Viktor is hiding his face in the pillow. There’s a grin on the part of it Yuuri can see, and when Yuuri stops it melts away into an expression Yuuri can’t see.

“Yuuri…” Viktor sighs.

Blue eyes catch his as Viktor turns his head. Yuuri’s cheeks tingle, but he doesn’t look away or panic. He’s only giving as good as he got.

“Be mine,” Viktor says, as if it’s a normal thing to say. Does he mean sex, or…?

“Your what?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor pulls Yuuri’s hand back towards himself, but this time he holds it folded against his chest. “Just mine.”

 _I thought I already was_ , Yuuri thinks. He doesn’t voice it, though, still unsure of the rules.

“Will you turn off the light?” he asks. It’ll be easier to compose himself in the dark, he thinks, and then Viktor moves onto his back to turn off the light, and nothing is easier. Yuuri takes measured breaths. They’ve slept in the same room before; this is nothing. This is nothing, and yet, the measured breathing is part of the problem. Yuuri has forgotten how to let his lungs take care of inhales and exhales, and every breath is under voluntary control. How does he manage it normally? How does he put breathing from his mind without choking?

Viktor still hasn’t let go of his hand. Technically that’s going against the promise he made to keep his hands to himself, but it’s so chaste Yuuri knows it doesn’t count; Viktor isn’t violating the rules he’s set himself. Is Yuuri disappointed? His body is, but his mind is reeling with something like relief. If Viktor kissed him now it would engender something like panicked desperation; he would try to lose himself in Viktor. Tempting as that is, he knows it would feel rushed in the morning.

 _Do you?_ he asks himself. _Do you know?_

Of course not. But he can guess.

Eventually, the silence and the dark allow exhaustion to catch up with him, and he drops off after a mumbled _good night_ and a hand press. He sleeps for a time. When he wakes it’s still dark, and his hand is still caught under Viktor’s; had unwillingness to draw his hand back woken him? Surely his body would move if it had to.

He draws his too-warm hand back, wiping it against his front. Sleep drags at him still, and the nervousness from earlier is gone. Lying in bed with Viktor—who wants to be his boyfriend, who wants _nothing more_ —is no longer the overwhelming reality it was when they first got into bed together some time ago, and when he reaches out it’s not to recapture Viktor’s hand but to touch Viktor’s chest in silent assurance.

Viktor lets out a breath. “Mm?” he says sleepily.

Yuuri’s attention is caught by the soft cotton of Viktor’s T-shirt, soaked with Viktor’s warmth. He brushes his fingers along it, remembering the way Viktor looked earlier on the bed. _Soft and warm. Comfortable._

Viktor’s breathing tells Yuuri he’s awake now, but he doesn’t say anything past that sleepy non-question. He lets Yuuri touch his chest, and when Yuuri pushes slightly he rolls onto his back obligingly. It’s too dim to see much, but Viktor’s open eyes reflect what little light there is in the room. He’s watching, insofar as he can. Yuuri moves closer, props himself up on one side. He lays his palm high over Viktor’s stomach, slides it up his ribcage to his collarbone, glancing over the hardness of Viktor’s nipple. He’s definitely awake, and Yuuri feels himself waking too, but the trancelike state lingers. He lets himself explore, soft fabric the only thing between his palm and Viktor’s skin, and the fact that he’s seen Viktor naked countless times hardly seems to matter. He wasn’t touching him then; Viktor wasn’t lying still beneath him then.

Viktor hisses a breath when Yuuri’s fingers touch the bare skin of his abdomen, where his shirt rode up. Yuuri doesn’t stop there. He descends to skim over the waistband of Viktor’s tracksuit bottoms, and this fabric is thicker. Yuuri can feel how it’s pulled tight across Viktor’s hips, and it sends heat rushing to his cheeks in sharp realisation. Viktor’s hard, or getting there. Had he woken up like that, or…?

Yuuri’s hand lingers at Viktor’s hip. He remembers how he thought Viktor’s clothes could be pushed aside easily, and he feels weak with temptation.

 _I could_ , he thinks. _He’d let me_.

“You know,” Viktor says softly, voice scratchy with sleep, “I usually sleep naked.”

Yuuri bites his lip. If he moves his hand just a little…

He wins out against temptation, but only just. His hand stays planted. “I know,” he says. “I’ve noticed.”

Viktor stretches slightly, and Yuuri wonders if he wants to be touched. It seems like the stretch may have been a disguised attempt to edge closer to Yuuri’s hand. That’s… flattering. Yuuri lets himself smile, triumph zinging through him.

“Yuuri…”

“Yes?” His voice is hushed; he holds his breath after.

“What should I do?” Viktor asks. "I'll do anything, but I don't want to rush things with you. I know you sometimes regret your... forwardness, when it happens."

The glow from Viktor’s eyes is gone when Yuuri looks up; he’s got an arm up over his face, hiding in the crook of his elbow. Is he embarrassed or just trying to keep himself under control in the face of Yuuri's exploration? His mind has to be sleep-addled too, regardless of his body's response.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri whispers. He moves his hand up instead of sideways, sliding it under Viktor’s shirt as if for comfort. Warm, bare skin greets him, and he feels the shudder that goes through Viktor clearly. What should either of them do? Rush in headlong? Hold off? Yuuri knows just one thing, and that’s that he doesn’t feel scared anymore. He feels awed, perhaps giddy, but not scared. Viktor’s trembling acquiescence leaves him totally in control, and he’s drunk with it. He wants to frustrate Viktor until he’s no longer disguising his need in casual gestures.

As if in answer, Viktor shifts his hips. Yuuri looks down at him, at his half-hidden face, and dips down to brush a kiss against his mouth. Viktor tips his head to lengthen the kiss, catching Yuuri with his mouth alone, but Yuuri doesn’t let himself stay captured. He draws back, hand descending back to Viktor’s hip. He fists his hand in the fabric.

“You’re not being careful with my heart,” Viktor says reproachfully, though the breathy way he says it renders it ridiculous. “I’m an old man compared to you. Cardiovascular health isn’t guarant—”

Yuuri slides his hand slowly to palm the bulge in Viktor’s trousers, and Viktor’s statement cuts off. He’s utterly tense beneath Yuuri, jerking involuntarily up against his hand. His harsh breathing is the only sound Yuuri hears, though logically he knows the traffic outside must still be going. That doesn’t matter; he can’t hear it. He lets himself outline the shape of Viktor’s cock: length, width, angle. Thick fabric does nothing to disguise the fact that Viktor is achingly hard.

Yuuri can relate.

“Yes?” Yuuri says in mock-interest, though the hitch of his voice betrays his investment. “What were you saying?”

“You’re terrible,” Viktor says. He squirms against Yuuri’s hand in a show of tortured pleasure. “Terrible.”

The half-hearted scolding only eggs Yuuri on. He moves beneath the blankets, descending down Viktor’s body until his mouth can replace his hand, and Viktor’s body stutters when he feels hot breath over his groin. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri lips at the outline he traced earlier, the blanketlike trance rendering him immune to his customary embarrassment. He feels wild with need—and wild. Just that, on its own. _Wild._ It’s not a familiar mood for him sober. “What?” he sighs after a moment.

“You’re meant to be a virgin!” The indignation in Viktor’s voice pushes arousal aside to make room for laughter. “Have you been drinking? I was trying so hard not to rush things. How are you—how can you—I thought…”

“I am, and I haven't been drinking.” He smiles up at Viktor, though he can’t exactly see him. “But I have an imagination.”

 _And you’re my favourite person to fantasise about_ , he doesn’t add. He’s beginning to feel an edge of desperation to his own arousal now, but he forces himself to slow down, to make every caress deliberate. He isn’t prepared when Viktor pulls him roughly up and rolls them, pinning Yuuri beneath him. Viktor’s forehead is heavy against his, his grip on Yuuri tight. He’s breathing hard, and he doesn’t shift after that first initial burst of movement; he’s recovering.

“I said I’d keep my hands off you,” he says eventually. “I can’t let you rush into anything, even for my sake.”

It sounds more like he’s saying it to himself; Yuuri presses his lips together in silent mutiny. He resists the urge to argue that Viktor's hands hadn't been on him, technically. Instead he asks, “What if I want to?”

“Will you want to tomorrow? It’s too soon.” Then: “I think. I’m not sure. I’ve never done this before.”

Yuuri wonders what Viktor means by _this_. He’s had sex before, Yuuri is sure. So what hasn’t he done before? Been someone’s first time? Been in a relationship with a virgin?

 _Cared this much?_ a tiny, hopeful voice adds.

“Viktor.”

Something in Viktor eases, and he lets Yuuri rise up to kiss him. His mouth and fingers are gentle as he responds, no matter his earlier frustration, and Yuuri feels weak with it—weak with how hard Viktor is trying to do this right.

The memory of Viktor’s horrified face in the parking lot earlier makes him smile into the kiss. He already knows a Viktor trying his best is a Viktor who still messes up, regardless of good intentions, but that doesn’t intimidate him. In that moment, in the slow kiss Viktor allows, Yuuri is sure of his own love, so sure he feels suffused with it. He hopes Viktor can feel it in the slide of his tongue, the gentle nip of his teeth—that it’s not desperation or wildness this time, but love.

_I’m grateful for you, no matter where we go from here._

When Viktor breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull back or move off Yuuri. Instead, he drops his head to rest in the juncture between Yuuri’s neck and shoulder, face hidden once more. “Don’t move,” he whispers, and Yuuri understands why. He’s trying to calm down, and like this—laying flush against each other, much of his weight on Yuuri—any movement means friction. Yuuri is tempted to disobey, to convince Viktor he’s ready, but Viktor has asked him not to move, and that means something. He stays still. He can wait a little longer, long a little longer.

In time, they both begin to breathe easier. Amusement tugs at Yuuri when he realises the thing he feared in the shower has already come to pass. He got hard in bed with Viktor—but in the end, he was anything but embarrassed by it. Embarrassment shared is… no embarrassment at all, apparently. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll be embarrassed about brazenly exploring Viktor’s body—he can already feel the tugging of awkwardness now, with his arousal dulled and the trance dissipating—but he’s not sure he’ll regret it.

He raises a hand, but only to set it gently against the back of Viktor’s head. Viktor relaxes into him, getting heavier, and Yuuri begins to play with his hair, threading his fingers through it. _Soft_. So soft, and with Viktor’s head right there Yuuri can smell the scent of cologne that never truly leaves Viktor’s skin. He inhales it like cleansing smoke, his strained lungs full with it, then lets it all out in a shuddering sigh.

“I’m crushing you,” Viktor says in a voice of regret. He moves to remedy the situation, removing his weight and pushing Yuuri onto his side, immediately drawing close again afterward to spoon him. Being gathered up like this makes Yuuri’s breath come fast again, and he shivers at the new nearness, the hairs on his arms raised.

He feels treasured. Odd, that, when Viktor can be the most critical guy in whatever country he happens to be in. His scolding could flay the bark off a tree. His love… well, that’s still an unknown.

“Are you happy to be going back to Russia soon?” Yuuri asks, more to have something to talk about than out of a real need to know. He imagines Viktor’s feelings are mixed.

“Mm,” Viktor says noncommittally. “I suppose.”

“It’ll be nice for you to be able to speak Russian again,” Yuuri says. “Off the phone, I mean.”

 _Why am I saying this?_ he wonders. He missed being able to express himself properly when he trained in Detroit, but why would he bring it up with Viktor?

_Because you’re worried he misses it. Of course you’re worried._

Viktor makes another noncommittal noise. Yuuri’s nerves tug at him until Viktor speaks again, but he doesn’t continue the awkward subject when he does.

“I’m looking forward to showing you off,” Viktor says instead. There’s a smile in his voice.

“Oh?”

“Naturally. A lot of people want to see us fail.”

 _Us_. It makes Yuuri smile, that phrasing, though he knows what those people want is for him to fail and for Viktor to realise the error of his ways. Still.

“I want to see you win them over,” Viktor says. _The way you won me over_ , he doesn’t say, but Yuuri hears it nonetheless.

“I will,” Yuuri says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. He hasn’t told Viktor that winning others over hasn’t been his goal for a while now. He knows his goal, and it has nothing to do with the crowd over in Moscow or anywhere else in the world. His only worry is that Viktor will enjoy being in his own country so much that he’ll regret the days in Hasetsu—that he’ll look back and see half a year wasted.

 _No_. Yuuri puts a stop to that thought. It’s only his self-doubt talking again, and that doubt cheapens the connection he and Viktor share. It’s a real thing, that connection, regardless of what the future holds. Viktor feels it too, doesn’t he? The loneliness, the call. Japan doesn’t hold the answer for Yuuri, and Russia doesn’t hold the answer for Viktor. If it did, Viktor never would have become his coach. Their very meeting is testament to what they share, to that connection.

Of course, connections break. Yuuri knows that. Anything can break, from the zipper on a jacket to a person’s resolve—but for now he has Viktor. Tomorrow it's back to Japan, and in less than three weeks they go to Russia together.

And tonight, he feels Viktor’s soft exhalations against his hair, and knows he’s treasured.


	3. New Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful responses! I treasure every one. A few things about the last two chapters have been changed retroactively as more information has become available~ nothing all that big. Thank you to Nikiforov for pointing out the exact amount of time between episodes!
> 
> (Also please check out this beautiful Viktor Nana drew for last chapter C'x - http://silencedmoment.tumblr.com/post/154090236993/a-choreographers-dilemma-by-mysecretfanmoments AHHHH)

The sobering light of morning hits Yuuri like a freight train. The curtains, like Yuuri’s calm, are permeable, and the room is bathed in a yellow glow as Yuuri lies rigid, curled tight. Slowly—slowly—he remembers how he felt yesterday after they’d both calmed down, how Viktor reacted. Nothing is ruined. He has to remember that.

Viktor breathes evenly behind him, still sleeping. Trying not to wake him, Yuuri turns onto his back and peers at his sleeping face. Now it isn’t panic washing through him but triumph, a kind of triumph that leaves his heart beating fast and his skin tingling. He remembers Viktor saying _I’ll do anything_.

In sleep Viktor looks just as handsome, but distant. Viktor hasn’t looked remote to Yuuri for a long time now, not while awake, and Yuuri has to remind himself Viktor wants him back, at least for the moment. He’s grown used to the quickfire changes in Viktor’s expressions, but not to the sight of his face at repose. He misses his smiles, his calculating glances, his brows lifting in surprise.

Perhaps if he wasn’t so preoccupied with the sight of Viktor’s sleeping face he would have noticed Viktor’s breathing changing, but as it is he nearly jumps when Viktor—eyes still closed—reaches out and pulls him in, throwing a leg over his hips. Yuuri is crushed to Viktor’s body in short order, Viktor’s clean smell surrounding him. He can no longer peer at Viktor face; it’s too close to his, smushed against his ear. Viktor’s breath tickles his neck.

“Morning,” Viktor says in accented Japanese. He nuzzles the side of Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri tries to say it back in Russian, and is crushed once more in apparent appreciation. His nervousness can’t exist half-squashed to Viktor’s bed-warm body; it leaves him entirely.

“Going home today!” Viktor singsongs. He sounds truly happy to be heading back to Hasetsu for training.

“Home?” Yuuri says tentatively.

Viktor doesn’t grace the comment with a reply, exactly. “Makkachin will be happy to see us. And I get to sit in the spring every day…”

“Not for too long,” Yuuri says, wanting to poke at him. “They say steamy air encourages hair loss over time.”

Viktor’s grip slackens. He pulls back to stare at Yuuri. “What?”

“Haven’t you seen Japanese businessmen?”

Viktor’s expression sets into a mask of horror—and Yuuri begins to laugh. He flaps a hand in denial. “Japanese men don’t go bald at any faster rate than others, I think, and if they do it’s the stress, but—”

“Yuuri! You can’t tease me like that!”

Yuuri smiles wryly. “Because you’re sensitive about your age?” He can’t take it seriously, Viktor being sensitive about something like that. How can he fail to recognise his own appeal? Is he that scared of losing some physical facet of it, as if his charm can’t make up the difference in a heartbeat?

Viktor’s eyes are narrowed. “Being the oldest in a group makes you feel a lot older than you are.”

Yuuri supposes it’s his turn to be a supportive boyfriend—a _boyfriend_ , who came up with that? How can it possibly apply to him now?—but it’s hard to take Viktor’s worries seriously. Hasn’t he seen himself? Where does this fear even come from? Unless it’s the same fear Yuuri feels, wholly based on his body’s peak fitness and how long it can possibly continue. That thought garners some sympathy for Viktor, at last, and Yuuri remembers how his own negative feelings left him when Viktor crushed him bodily, so he rolls on top of Viktor and returns the favour. He pushes Viktor into the mattress beneath him, making no effort to catch his own weight, though he keeps his upper body lifted slightly so he can see Viktor’s face. For a moment Viktor looks totally vulnerable, caught off guard, and Yuuri pushes his bangs back from his forehead to savour the expression in full: the lift of Viktor’s brows, the slightly open mouth, the barest hint of pink across his cheekbones…

It’s beautiful. Yuuri could spend his life here, he thinks. Is this what Viktor looks like when people aren’t looking?

Viktor blinks a few times fast, and it breaks the spell. Suddenly Yuuri is remembering last night, how he basically threw himself at Viktor and forced Viktor to stop him, and he rolls off Viktor then off the side of the bed onto his feet. He grabs his glasses from the bedside table and makes his way to the bathroom—but Viktor is up on his knees on the bed, and he catches Yuuri’s wrist as he passes. Viktor pulls, and Yuuri is pressed up against him. Yuuri has been trying to keep his own morning breath averted, but Viktor places his hands on either side of his face and roughly pulls him into a kiss anyway. Yuuri can’t resist, and after a moment he stops trying to.

This is Viktor’s assurance, he thinks—that last night was okay. Perhaps the crushing wake-up hug was too. It’s odd to think Viktor has begun being able to read him so well, or perhaps Viktor is still guessing. Either way Yuuri relaxes slightly, though he jumps a little when Viktor caresses along his spine, inciting different nervousness. He’s suddenly aware of how little he’s wearing.

“Get dressed,” Viktor says when he pulls back. So that caress what just that: a caress. “Pack so you don’t have to do it later. I’ll meet you back here and we can go for breakfast.”

Yuuri nods. He’s pleased to hear Viktor sounding so coach-like again, authoritative. He’s also relieved when Viktor takes the adjoining door to his room, leaving him alone. Will they stay in a single hotel room from now on when they’re not in Hasetsu? Yuuri isn’t sure what to hope for. What if he embarrasses himself again? He’d handled Viktor as if Viktor was—was—was what? His plaything? Something like that. It all looks so much worse in the cold light of morning, and when Yuuri stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom he can’t quite look himself in the eye. Why hadn’t he just asked instead of getting carried away?

 _Because talking about these things is impossible too_ , he thinks. Impossible for him, at least. So how will he ever get past all these walls in his mind and act without regret? He thinks of Viktor hard and squirming, the trance of need, and wonders if the embarrassment is worse than the thought of having missed out on something amazing. Yuuri wants all the things he’s heard and fantasised so much about, wants to do them with Viktor, but somehow he’s managed to convince Viktor he needs time.

He doesn’t _want_ to take his time. He wants to be easygoing, just like Viktor is, and say things like _what do you want me to be to you?_ as if any option suits him. He wishes he could put his reserve aside like an old pair of shoes, but the only thing that allows for that is alcohol, and the fuzzy things he remembers after a drunken night always spear him in the morning. Drunkenness is no substitute to being laid back naturally; he wants the ease of living without the embarrassment after.

Oh well.

Eventually the routine of getting ready allows his mood to lighten. He’s still feeling a mix of embarrassment and impatience, but he has time. The Grand Prix isn’t for another month. He and Viktor have that much time together for sure.

 _If you win_.

Well, that’s simple then: he has to win. There’s nothing else for it, and he won’t let any niggling, doubting thoughts into his brain until his win is secure. New determination fills him, and it stays with him as he and Viktor eat breakfast before heading to the airport. It keeps him pacing while they’re waiting for their flight, and drumming his fingers when they’re on board the aircraft. Viktor sleeps on his shoulder, seeming smug for some reason, and Yuuri tries and fails to read a book.

When they finally get to Hasetsu, he changes into his workout clothes and heads to the rink.

“You’re allowed days off, you know,” Viktor says as Yuuri runs past him at the inn. He’s holding Makkachin at bay with a hand, his gleaming chin and position on the floor suggesting the dog has already had a chance to greet him exuberantly.

“I know!” Yuuri yells back, and waves as he heads out the door.

  

* * *

  

Yuuri is skating even in his dreams. Every moment is hard ice, emotion put to song, his programmes performed again and again and again until his whole world spins with them. He’s never known motivation like this, enough to make him jump higher, land better, practice longer. He could keep going forever, immune to the boredom of long practice. Even doing what he loves he’s liable to wish he were doing something else at times, but his passion seems bottomless just now.

The first three days, Viktor encourages him. On day five, Viktor starts to falter in his support. By day six he’s retracted it entirely.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says on said day, around lunchtime if Yuuri’s hunger levels are any indication. “Aren’t you overdoing things?”

Yuuri lands a quad toe loop as if it’s nothing, sailing into the next movement. He doesn’t want to stop yet, but he glides to the side of the rink obediently. He noticed the worried look in Viktor’s eyes during dinner last night, and knows his focus may be causing problems for others, even if it feels like the most natural thing to him.

 _Shouldn’t he be happy I’m focused?_ a sulky part of Yuuri wonders. _He’s my coach._

The set of Viktor’s mouth says Viktor is not, in fact, happy. He’s not _unhappy_ , exactly, but there’s a stiffness to his posture that doesn’t bode well.

“Lunch,” Viktor says in a commanding voice, and ushers Yuuri off the ice. He walks with Yuuri to the inn in silence, even though Yuuri insists he packed a lunch and could just eat at the rink.

“You’re not going back to the rink today,” Viktor says. “Your body needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says. “I know when it’s too much.”

Viktor glances at him. “Obviously you don’t. The hours you’re putting in are too long, and you’re ignoring off-the-ice training. I didn’t think I needed to tell you how to train.”

 _You don’t_ , Yuuri thinks. Perhaps his petulance shows in his expression, because Viktor’s brows lift in surprise. A moment later Viktor casts his gaze up at the sky, and Yuuri isn’t sure he hears right, but it sounds like Viktor is saying, “ah, Yakov…”

Yuuri doesn’t inquire; he’s still annoyed Viktor’s dragging him home when he could be practicing.

Neither of them breaks the ice for the entire walk back, and there’s unresolved tension buzzing between them when they sit down at the inn to eat. Something doesn’t feel right, but Yuuri’s at a loss as to what it is. He’s hungrier than he thought he was, though, and he shovels his mother’s hearty cooking into his mouth like he’s half-starved. It makes up for the lack of conversation, though Viktor finishes before him and takes the opportunity to gaze at him over folded hands, a pose carefully calculated to make Yuuri nervous.

Eventually, Yuuri has to stop eating; the food is gone. Physically all that’s between them is the low table. Non-physically…

“Am I meant to apologise?” Yuuri asks at last.

Viktor inclines his head. His chin is propped on his hand; his expression says _try me_.

“I’m sorry for not practicing in a way you approve of.”

Viktor’s smile is wry. For a moment Yuuri stays defensive, but then Viktor reaches past empty bowls to curl his hands around one of Yuuri’s, and the press of his warm hands releases something; Yuuri feels like a locked door inside of him has been kicked open, and he remembers what’s driving him in the first place. He needs to earn Viktor. He needs to show Viktor he’s worth the trouble.

Consequently, he’s been ignoring Viktor for five days.

Viktor watches the change sweep over his face, and Yuuri wants to look away, hide somehow, but there’s nothing to hide behind. His face feels like it’s burning.

“Care to explain?” Viktor asks at last, low-voiced.

Yuuri drags his eyes away. Even his neck feels hot. He messed up, didn’t he? Not by practicing, but by practicing so hard he only has enough time to fall into bed exhausted every night. His fears slash hopes regarding rooming with Viktor have proved a moot point ever since Viktor fell asleep in his own room the first night before Yuuri returned from the rink. Yuuri didn’t have the courage to join him then, and they’ve kept the same arrangement since, mostly because Yuuri passes out exhausted by eight most nights, alone in his bed.

It looks like he’s been avoiding Viktor.

“It’s not like that,” Yuuri says. Viktor’s face is utterly blank, and he realises Viktor can’t read his mind. Right. “If I don’t do well at Rostelecom, I…”

“Yes?”

“I need to win.”

Viktor nods. “And you will.”

Yuuri looks at him in exasperation. _You don’t know that_ is at the tip of his tongue, warring with _easy for you to say_ —but then he remembers his own request. _Believe in me more than I believe in myself_ , he’d told Viktor, and Viktor is doing as he’s told. He’s being the coach Yuuri asked him to be.

Yuuri casts his mind back over the past few days in sudden consternation. Viktor was with him a lot of the time he was practicing, but Yuuri always carried on for that little bit longer alone, telling Viktor to go back to the inn without him. The first few days had been filled with little touches, bright-eyed glances, moments when Viktor stood closer and talked in a lower register than he normally did. However, as time went by, Viktor’s warm glances cooled to looks of calculation, worry. The memories are there in Yuuri’s mind, registered subconsciously—so why didn’t he give them proper thought at the time?

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, and this sorry isn’t the least bit petulant. He’s all too aware of his mother bustling about and two regulars at a table nearby, or else he might cast himself at Viktor’s feet. “Can we go to my room? Or yours? Or just—somewhere private?”

Viktor nods, and they take their bowls to the kitchen on their way to Yuuri’s room. Yuuri’s shoulders prickle, and he wants to walk with them bowed against Viktor’s gaze, but he forces them to relax. He opens the door for Viktor, then follows him in.

Then paces.

Viktor seats himself on the bed. He looks openly worried, and Yuuri realises he’s only making things worse with his tortured pacing. What if Viktor thinks he’s struggling to break some horrible news? What if Viktor thinks Yuuri’s about to dump him?

 _As if I’d ever be the one to do that_ , Yuuri thinks, but he has to make sure there’s no room for error. He walks over to Viktor, and some impulse brings him to his knees. His next impulse has him faceplanting in Viktor’s lap, throwing his arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, voice muffled. “I’ve been a terrible boyfriend.”

He feels tentative fingers in his hair, but Viktor says nothing. Yuuri looks up, meeting Viktor’s gaze.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Yuuri says. “That’s all. That’s why I need to practice.”

The change is like spring after a long winter. Viktor’s expression warms, the lines of his face relaxing. He brushes a finger against Yuuri’s bangs, setting a lock of hair to rights against his glasses. “You worry too much.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees. That’s a fact of his existence. He wants to make up for it, though, and turns to flattery. “So what training does my wise and experienced coach recommend?”

“Hard to say. Tell me more about this coach.”

Yuuri reads the pleased mischief in Viktor’s face. “He was a several-times world champion before he decided to coach me.”

Viktor makes a dismissive sound. “That’s in the past. Is he handsome?”

“Very. And elegant. I used to have posters of him up in my room.”

“People have told me that,” Viktor says wonderingly, and it’s clear the _compliment me_ game is over in lieu of a better target. “But I never saw any, and I thought maybe they were just trying to wind me up.”

“Wind you up?” Yuuri repeats, mirth pulling at him. He doesn’t think the bottomless confidence Viktor showed in the early days needed any sort of winding up. Still, Yuuri’s been a bad partner, and maybe sharing an embarrassing secret will go some way in making up for it. In a conspiratorial tone he asks, “Do you want to see them?”

“There really are posters?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Yuuri gets up to root in his wardrobe. He’d rolled all the posters into one big tube and hidden them behind some clothes, but the tube is easy enough to reach. Viktor watches as he draws it out, and perhaps he thinks it’s just one or two posters given the uniform shape. This impression is ruined by a rain of smaller posters falling down when Yuuri holds the tube at an angle.

“Oops,” Yuuri says, and Viktor’s face becomes childlike with surprise. Viktor starts to laugh.

“What...?” he says, but Yuuri beckons for him to stay seated. He gathers up the fallen posters and hands them all to Viktor. Viktor begins to roll them out, setting them on the floor and weighing them down with Yuuri’s things so they don’t roll up again. Soon he has to crawl around on the floor, using up all available space, and afterwards he sits perched on the bed looking down at all the posters, his face pink. Yuuri sits next to him, watching, getting increasingly on edge.

Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. “Viktor…?”

“You have duplicates,” Viktor says.

“I know. I’d get them as gifts but already have them, and then I’d just… keep both.”

“A lot of these aren’t even of me skating.”

Why had Yuuri thought this was a good idea again? He feels like his head might explode with all the hot blood rushing through it. “I know.”

Viktor stares down at all the pictures of himself, lovingly collected over the years. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he drags his gaze up to meet Yuuri’s, and Yuuri is surprised to see Viktor’s blushing at least as hard as he is.

“You said _idol_ ,” Viktor says. “I assumed you meant you admired my skating.”

Yuuri has his arms around his drawn-up legs, but he still manages a shrug. “Now you understand why it was hard for me to approach you.”

“Hard…?” Viktor’s quizzical smile makes little sense to Yuuri. Doesn’t he remember how shy Yuuri was to start with? Or does he put that down to some form of Japanese reserve?

“Anyway,” Yuuri says, thoroughly embarrassed. “Now you know my secret.”

Viktor is still looking at him like he’s a puzzle to be worked out. Eventually he must come to some conclusion, because his expression clears and he gestures at the posters on the floor. “We have to replace these.”

Yuuri moves to put them away, careful not to stand on any. He rolls them back into their tubes with the care of a museum curator. “With what?”

“Pictures of us. You can burn the old posters.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are hot again. _Pictures of us._ He imagines himself after the Grand Prix, sighing over a framed picture of himself and Viktor. It’s a depressing image. Still… until then…

“If you’d stopped practicing for five minutes the past few days, I would have asked you to pose for a better picture with me,” Viktor says, unaware of Yuuri’s shaking hands. “With Makkachin, of course. For my phone background. I was thinking of in front of the inn, but anywhere with good lighting will be good enough for me. The background won’t really be in it anyway—”

Yuuri finishes putting the posters away and sets a hand over Viktor’s mouth to quiet him. Viktor is here. He’s here, in Yuuri’s room, and for now he’s his. There’s no separation, no complicated history. How can he let that go to waste with the Grand Prix looming? Yuuri crawls onto Viktor’s lap, sliding his arms around Viktor’s shoulders. Viktor lets out an appreciative sigh, beginning to nuzzle Yuuri’s neck. It makes the hairs on Yuuri’s arms stand on end.

“You still have to practice,” Viktor says, voice muffled. His hands are warm as they roam Yuuri’s back. “But not as much as you have been. Go back to your old schedule.”

“Can I do a little more than that?”

“Only a little.”

Yuuri sighs, but it’s hard to be disappointed while Viktor’s holding him. They sit in silence for a long time, Yuuri’s heart hammering because he’s holding Viktor and everything about Viktor makes his heart hammer. He isn’t nervous, though. It’s just Viktor’s smell, and his solid shape beneath Yuuri, and the way he seems to be trying to bury himself in Yuuri for the winter. Yuuri’s body trembles at the closeness, but it isn’t the trembling of fear. Quite the opposite: he thinks his insides might be glowing, held back only by his skin.

The moment lengthens so even Yuuri wonders if it’s getting too long, regardless of inner bliss. “I suppose I should get to Minako’s studio soon,” he says.

“I’m not recharged yet.”

Yuuri laughs. “Recharged?”

Viktor’s face—when he unearths it from Yuuri’s neck—is at its poutiest. “You’ve been ignoring me whenever I’m not critiquing you. I have at least—” he glances at his watch “—fifteen more minutes of boyfriend time to claim.”

“Are you that bored?” Yuuri asks. The question has left his mouth before he’s even had a chance to consider it. When he does, he feels like an idiot. Of course Viktor is bored. Whenever he’s not with Yuuri he’s exploring Hasetsu, trying out his baby-level Japanese on impressionable locals and visiting places he’s already seen plenty of times over the summer. Compared to the glamour of his old life…

_He must be bored to tears._

Viktor’s glance is assessing, not introspective, like it’s an easy question to answer. “No,” he says, though Yuuri isn’t sure he’s telling the truth. Viktor trails a finger along the side of Yuuri’s glasses, from the hinge to his ear. “You’re meant to practice a lot.”

Yuuri catches his hand, setting it against his cheek. “You’ll tell me if you are? Bored, I mean.”

Viktor smiles. “I will.”

Yuuri’s stomach squirms pleasantly, but he doesn’t have long to revel in Viktor’s smile; there’s a commotion in the main room of the inn. Mari calls something, deadpan as always, and then there’s scrambling in the hallway, typical of Makkachin barrelling down it. This time when Yuuri tries to end the embrace Viktor lets him. Yuuri gets up to pull open the door for Makkachin, who greets first Yuuri then Viktor, taking a while to calm down, running back and forth between the two of them a few times before settling on the bed.

“Time for a new phone background,” Viktor says. He pulls Yuuri onto the bed with him. “I still have at least ten minutes with you.”

“I’m not the best at pictures—”

“I’ve been so lonely.”

“Viktor!”

Viktor turns half-pleading, half-laughing eyes on him, and Yuuri can’t say a word. He lets Viktor gather him close for a picture with Makkachin, wondering how he could have gone from pictures of Viktor on his walls to being dragged into pictures with the real Viktor. Magic, he supposes, and a viral video, and some form of intellectual boredom on Viktor’s part. He feels a swell of gratefulness nonetheless, and his smile in the picture looks genuine.

Viktor wastes no time setting it as his background. He keeps Yuuri close after, telling him about his day in a low voice that borders on seductive, and eventually—at least ten minutes later—he allows Yuuri to head to Minako’s studio. His obvious reluctance to part ways keeps Yuuri’s cheeks warm the entire trip.

 _He’s mine_ , Yuuri can’t stop himself from thinking as he walks—and he does his best to ignore the depressing part of himself that wants to add _for now._


	4. Stolen Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's commented! You make it so much fun to work on this. 
> 
> Merry late christmas to Neli, whose request was "another chapter of ACD". C'x HERE IT IS! 
> 
> (Note: if nsfw makes you uncomfortable, skip to "we have time" when you want to skip. c: )

The door to Viktor’s bedroom is open wider than usual that night. Viktor leaves it that way for Makkachin sometimes, but this time Yuuri has a feeling it’s for him. He stands outside the door taking long, slow breaths. His hair is damp, his skin warm from soaking in the spring. The light inside the room is dim, coming in only from outside, and there’s a good chance Viktor is sleeping.

Yuuri walks in. Makkachin lifts his head from the bed, and Yuuri pats him in silent greeting, making his tail thump. Viktor is turned away from them, his back to the room, and it gives Yuuri the confidence to slide under the covers next to him. He doesn’t touch Viktor or greet him in any way, and Makkachin settles back down.

 _Infiltration complete_ , Yuuri thinks to himself, imagining spy movie music in the background. He’s amused. It’s hardly Mission Impossible, sneaking into his boyfriend’s bed, but they haven’t discussed this, and he had to overcome his own worries to accomplish it. He lays his glasses next to him and pulls the blankets up to his chin.

Viktor turns in his sleep—or is he awake? A warm hand finds the side of Yuuri’s face, proof it’s the latter. Yuuri lets his face be turned in Viktor’s direction, heart pounding when he feels Viktor’s mouth press against his own. The kiss doesn’t stay chaste long; Viktor tempts his mouth open, his tongue warm, lips soft. The way the bed dips warns Yuuri a moment before he feels Viktor’s body against his own, rolling up against him in silent greeting, not wholly separate from the kiss. It’s dizzying.

There’s a lot of bare skin, and the cant of Viktor’s hips seems especially designed to drive him over some edge.

Viktor hums smugly as he draws back. “I’m glad you came in,” he says. His voice is uneven, drowsy.

Yuuri wonders if people ever faint lying down. He’s half-convinced he hit his head on the ice sometime during puberty and he’s now in a coma, living out a fantasy where childhood hero Viktor Nikiforov lies in bed waiting for him at night. Is he naked, or just very close to it?

When Yuuri doesn’t respond, Viktor pats him softly. “Don’t worry. I have underwear on.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Yuuri says. The squeak of his voice isn’t worry—just some form of pleasure that comes with a closed throat and a racing heart.

“And I’m going to treasure you,” Viktor says. He’s stroking Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri wonders if he’s been drinking or sleeping. What broke his filter?

“Glad to hear it,” Yuuri mumbles in the meantime, embarrassed.

“You don’t understand,” Viktor says, still patting him. “But you will.”

“Ah,” says Yuuri. “Good.”

Viktor is drunk, or woozy with sleep. Either one means Yuuri shouldn’t try to start something. He lets Viktor mumble a bit more, and when his breathing changes Yuuri sighs. He’s disappointed and relieved at the same time, caught between his desire to move into new territory and his complete inexperience. He can fantasise, of course, but if Viktor won’t lead the responsibility falls to Yuuri, and in this, at least, he doesn’t know how.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. He can’t do anything about it today. Viktor’s bed-warm body rolling against him is too recent a memory, and he has to push it away or he won’t be able to sleep. He closes his eyes decisively. Tomorrow he’ll see about getting to bed earlier, if he can work up the courage. Tomorrow Viktor won’t be sleep-drunk and receptive and way too seductive at precisely the wrong time.

Yuuri falls asleep somehow, his thoughts violently turned from the present. It’s the only way he’ll ever get some rest.

 

* * *

  

Push forward, step, glide, arm up, prepare, brace, jump, spin, land, step, glide—

The noise of his skates ought to drown everything out, but he swears he hears a sigh. He glances to where Viktor is leaning against the barrier, and the angle of his lean—sharp, face planted on his hand—looks wistful enough to pair with that half-imagined sigh. Yuuri keeps going for just a bit longer, finishing the programme, before skating over to Viktor.

“Can you tell me when you were sloppy?” Viktor asks.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, and lists the instances; Viktor has only two to add. He’s improving, he supposes.

“That’s why you were sighing?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor shakes his head, the coach façade melting. He leans on the barrier hard. “I could hear the music, watching you.”

“Despite my sloppiness?”

Viktor’s smile is warm. “Part of your unique charm.” He holds up a finger, smiles in that way that always accompanies harsh truth. “Judges won’t think so, though.”

“Maybe I can ask them to go out with me as well, so they’ll like my _unique charm_.”

Viktor sniffs. “Seduce them with your skating instead.”

Yuuri inclines his head, smiles. “Isn’t that what I did with you?”

It seems a bit presumptuous to say, but he doesn’t expect Viktor’s gaze to go all _knowing_ on him, like they share a secret. “Not exactly,” Viktor says.

_What?_

The strange moment passes. Viktor sends him back to the ice, but his concentration is broken. He keeps glancing at Viktor, his mind on Viktor instead of skating, and Viktor must sense it, because a scant five minutes later he’s on the ice too, sailing up to Yuuri and tugging his hand, guiding him as if in a dance.

What is he doing? Is this coaching? Yuuri can’t help laughing with pleasure, not sure what’s happening but reluctant to stop. Are they dancing? When Viktor stops guiding him Yuuri improvises, adding a flourish of his own before they come back together, and now he leads. He’s so swept up in it he nearly tries a lift, like they practiced during lulls in motivation in the summer, but he remembers just in time that _his_ lifts nearly ended in grievous bodily harm.

“Uh,” Yuuri says as Viktor moves slightly, and their trajectories shift—but Yuuri isn’t going the same way as Viktor, and he can feel himself about to fall. Viktor grabs him.

They both fall.

Viktor’s exhale when Yuuri lands on top of him is loud, and so is his gasp of breath, and then so is his laughter as he lets his head fall back on the ice.

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri says. “I wasn’t sure which way you were moving.”

“Improvising,” Viktor starts, with difficulty, “is probably… better… on solid ground.”

“With less velocity,” Yuuri agrees, dropping his head on Viktor’s chest. His blood roars in his ears. He wishes he hadn’t messed up. That was fun, skating close to Viktor; they haven’t done it since the summer, when Viktor had a brief obsession with learning pair skating moves.

 _We can do it when you’re sick of practicing your own routines_ , Viktor had said. _I’ve always wanted to try._

It had never gone anywhere—but it had meant touching Viktor more than usual, and so Yuuri had gone along with it, his body singing each time they were on the ice together. They’d never really tried to turn it into anything—they didn’t have that kind of time, with Yuuri needing to practice so much—but some part of Yuuri had wished they could perform like that, together, him and the person he admired most.

He still wishes that, a little, as he and Viktor catch their breath on the ice. He knows he should roll off Viktor, but he doesn’t want to; he keeps his head down, inhaling deeply. Viktor’s scent is a pleasant mist around him.

“Are you two all right?” Yuuko calls into the silence. Yuuri twitches in shock. He thought they were alone; did she come in after they fell? Viktor doesn’t move, but Yuuri lifts his head.

“We tried pair skating,” he explains, not wanting her to think he and Viktor are lying on the ice for some kinky reason. “It was—”

Yuuko’s gasp interrupts him. He can’t see her face well, but by the sound of her voice he can imagine her eyes sparkling. “That would be perfect!”

“Ah?”

“The two of you…” She sounds like she’s imagining it; he can see her clasp her hands together. “Beautiful.”

Yuuri looks down at Viktor to see what he makes of it. Viktor’s expression isn’t hard to read, but it doesn’t help Yuuri; he’s curious too, waiting to see what Yuuri thinks. Okay then: he has to make up his own mind. He imagines it, being on the ice with Viktor, not as student and coach but as partners, equals in something they both love. It makes his stomach pull with excitement, but also fear. How can he possibly deserve a place next to Viktor on the ice?

But oh, how he wants it.

“Maybe someday,” he says, finally getting up. Viktor eyes him, still lying down.

“Someday?”

Yuuri can’t look away. Viktor’s gaze keeps him motionless, captured, and the evasion of _someday_ slips away. “I want to,” he says. “I’d love to.”

“You’d love to… someday?”

“No. As soon as we can. An… an exhibition.”

He only has Rostelecom and the Grand Prix Final, assuming he makes it through the former. It’s so little time; he can’t expect to form something worthwhile in that space, even if his own programmes no longer need as much polishing. After the Grand Prix, he doesn’t think Viktor will want to stay.

Retired skaters don’t have coaches; they have ex-coaches. Viktor will be gone. A pair skate as his exhibition after the final is just a pipe dream. And yet…

“Is that possible?” he asks, his stomach squirming—and all his nervousness is wiped away by Viktor’s grin. It was the right thing to say—it was what Viktor wanted to hear.

“We can do it,” Viktor says. “I’m sure we can.”

And Yuuri should think no, should dedicate himself solely to winning Rostelecom—but he can’t deny himself this. If he makes the sacrifice he knows he should, if he retires, he’ll fit everything he can into this season, pair skate and all.

He’ll allow himself that much.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s plans to move their relationship into new territory are ruined that night, and the exhibition is to blame. The idea of pair skating has set Viktor alight, and now Viktor is staying up late, headphones on, making frequent notations as he listens to a song he won’t tell Yuuri about. When Yuuri asks if he should go back to his own room to sleep Viktor makes a kicked-puppy face that tells Yuuri just how unwelcome his suggestion is—but a good night kiss when he’s already half-asleep is the best he gets that night. The next night Viktor shares his idea for the exhibition with him, and it takes over his brain too.

It won’t be too hard to learn, because it draws on a choreography Yuuri already knows by heart: Viktor’s own song.

Their song, he supposes—it brought them together. Can Yuuri claim it too? Viktor seems to think so. His eyes shine as he explains his choice, and the glow of his expression only brightens when he sees Yuuri is just as taken with the idea.

“I want to,” Yuuri says, again and again, and each time he does Viktor hugs him, giddy, almost childlike in his happiness.

It’s wonderful. It’s a dream come true. And it all adds to Yuuri’s frustration. By the next day he thinks the physical proximity might kill him. When he’s not tuning Viktor out for the sake of practice, awareness of him drives him to distraction. Viktor is a touchy-feely person, always maintaining contact somehow, and every touch only makes Yuuri aware of where he isn’t being touched, and _how_ he isn’t being touched. He waits for chaste caresses to lose their chastity in vain; when Viktor is awake, he’s careful not to go too far—being a gentleman, Yuuri supposes, though it seems anything but gentlemanly to Yuuri. Yuuri is no modest flower guarding his virginity. He’s more than ready to thrust it away with both hands, but Viktor’s gaze remains calculating, careful, serious in a way that’s most unlike Viktor. Some boundary exists in his head that doesn’t exist in Yuuri’s—and in the meantime Viktor is always gorgeous, and always touching, and always there.

That last part— _always there_ —is what becomes a problem, when the first two points make Yuuri want to release the tension on his own. Viktor reluctantly puts aside Yuuri’s caresses when they reach a certain point, but he doesn’t let Yuuri leave at night either. And while Viktor might have private time in the day to masturbate, Yuuri doesn’t, unless he wants to risk being walked in on. The only place he can lock himself in is the toilet, and he’s not quite desperate enough for that.

Most of the time.

He loves waking up next to Viktor, but he longs for his own bed, the privacy of his room, the wild abandon of letting himself imagine whatever he wants without fear. He wants to fantasise about the way Viktor rolled his hips against him, about the hand Viktor set against the small of his back when his shirt rode up, about the husky whisper in his ear as they were discussing the pair skating. A million vats of fuel exist to light Yuuri’s fantasies, but Yuuri doesn’t have the time alone to indulge himself.

On the bright side, his eros routine is coming along.

“Marvelous!” Viktor calls, applauding hard. It’s Yuuri’s best practice so far, he knows, and for once Viktor has nothing to say. He’s grinning when Yuuri approaches the barrier.

“What’s my reward?” Yuuri asks, squinting. He has a slight headache from the glare of the ice, sensitised to it today. It happens sometimes.

“Do you want to practice?” Viktor asks, and the breathless quality of his voice tells Yuuri it’s about the pair skate. Viktor has already demonstrated, and they’ve run through the simple parts a few times, and practiced the hard ones, but it was just to work out the kinks.

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes. He doesn’t know why he agrees; simulating love and longing on the ice with Viktor is sure to increase his frustration, but he’s a glutton for punishment.

 _He wants to skate with me_ , Yuuri reminds himself. That alone is a triumph worth ending his career on, a bright spark that will outshine any medal for him, even if it doesn’t for Viktor.

“Begin, then,” Viktor says. He kisses the back of Yuuri’s hand, then his palm. “I’ll join you.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _I was right,_ Yuuri thinks as they walk back to the inn. _It was a bad decision_. Bad, bad, bad: Viktor adjusting his grip, moving in unison, all the ways the choreography unfolded from concept to reality—and Viktor’s eyes. Always his eyes, the set of his mouth, his clear gaze. How is Yuuri meant to cope? He keeps his eyes half-closed against a brisk wind, but even if he can’t see Viktor as he soliloquys about pair skating, he can hear him, and sense him, and to make it worse Viktor keeps bumping him affectionately.

 _Stop._ He wants to turn his senses off, or shut down the chaos inside, or something. He’s not hungry, but Viktor gets him to eat, and it relaxes him just slightly.

“Yuuri?”

Their meals are done. Yuuri is sitting, digesting, and he no longer feels like someone is banging a drum inside of him—but looking up at Viktor makes his heart turn over.

“Yes?”

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it? I thought you liked it.”

“I loved it,” Yuuri says. He swallows. “It’s…” _A dream come true. Something I didn’t even know I could wish for. Too much._

_Not enough._

He looks at Viktor, at the blue eyes that have become precious beyond words, and he doesn’t know how he’s meant to go on after this season. He knows someone with lukewarm feelings shouldn’t try to put himself before others—he knows it’s right to quit after one last, wholehearted attempt, before he can doubt the wisdom of quitting, before he can trick himself into another season—but he fears it almost like death. It used to be a comforting thought, getting on with his life, and now…

He _wants_. He wants this, he wants now, he wants to stretch this moment out into a future that scares him.

“What?” Viktor asks. He’s leaning forward, as if he might read the answer on Yuuri’s face; he looks as caught as Yuuri feels.

Yuuri doesn’t let himself doubt. He stands up and rounds the table, dragging Viktor up by his wrist and pulling him down the hall. He’s not sure whether the rapid beat in Viktor’s wrist is Viktor’s pulse or the pulsing of his own fingers, and he doesn’t stop to check. He pulls them into Viktor’s room and closes the door. Viktor waits for an explanation; Yuuri looks at their feet.

“Please,” he says.

“P… please?”

The smugness Yuuri expected isn’t there when he looks up; Viktor’s face is red. He looks young, unprepared. It gives Yuuri the confidence to take Viktor’s hand and put it over his heart.

“I won’t regret it,” he says. “I’ll never regret it. So please…” He swallows. “Don’t push me away?”

He pauses long enough to make sure Viktor won’t try to stop him before he starts; Viktor is motionless. _Good._ Taking tacit permission where it’s given, Yuuri rises up onto the balls of his feet to kiss Viktor, and Viktor’s only response is to breathe out, slow and stuttering. His mouth is still under Yuuri’s for a long moment, leaving Yuuri to lead the kiss, but Yuuri is no longer new to this. He knows how to give a lingering kiss; he had the best teacher. His tongue slides along Viktor’s bottom lip before moulding their mouths together, and then Viktor is kissing him back, curving into him.

The hand Yuuri was holding captive against his heart escapes to slide into his hair, and then the other is there as well, and Viktor is taking over, pressing against him. Yuuri melts into it, relieved to relinquish control for a moment. Viktor is a good kisser.

Viktor is good at most things.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. He’s pulled back just a little. His eyes search Yuuri’s through fogged up glasses. “You have to be at the studio soon.”

Yuuri would glare, but they’re too close for it to be effective. Instead he pulls away—but he pulls Viktor back with him. He turns them and walks Viktor back, back, onto the bed. A hand planted on his chest pushes Viktor down, allowing Yuuri to climb onto him. Yuuri looks down at Viktor, hoping he looks imperious rather than petulant; his hand is still planted in the centre of Viktor’s chest.

“You want me to go?” he asks. The Viktor on the ice didn’t seem to. The Viktor in that kiss definitely didn’t.

Viktor’s fingers skim his thigh. Up, down, up, up, down, up. Nervous. “No.”

Wound up as he is, Yuuri still hears the _but_. He waits, heart thumping. _Please let me overrule you_ , he begs silently. _Please._

“It should be perfect,” Viktor says. “After so long.”

 “I don’t want that,” Yuuri says. “I just want to touch you. Properly. Do you still think it’s too soon?”

“You won’t regret it?” Viktor’s gaze is steady. He pauses to glance at the light coming in the window significantly. “It’s day, you know.”

Yuuri is puzzled. Is Viktor conservative? Or simply remembering how last time Yuuri was this forward it had been the dead of night? The bottom part of the window in Viktor’s room is opaque, ensuring privacy while letting November light stream in. It’s nice—not a downside. “I won’t regret. I don’t care that it’s day.”

“You won’t pretend it didn’t happen?”

Yuuri’s face floods. “Pretend it didn’t happen? Maybe I will to my parents, but—”

“That’s fine,” Viktor interrupts, not letting Yuuri finish. Sudden urgency couches his movements. He sits up, and Yuuri’s arm—set so threateningly a moment before—folds easily. It’s crushed between them as Viktor pulls him close, kissing him hard. Yuuri’s body shakes with reaction at the sudden intensity, at his win, and all he does is hold tight when Viktor lifts him, carrying him higher onto the bed.

Viktor lays him down like a prize, hard-won and precious, but he doesn’t pause in triumph for long. Yuuri’s head falls back against the bed as Viktor’s mouth moves to just under his ear. Viktor is between his legs, his tongue flicking against Yuuri’s neck for a moment before he sucks a bruise, and tension zings through Yuuri. He clamps his legs around Viktor’s waist so hard Viktor wheezes. A hand pushes at Yuuri’s knee, spreading his legs open again, and Yuuri pants, overwhelmed. He tries not to clamp up a second time, even though Viktor’s hand is at his waist, creeping under his shirt. The sweat from practice has dried against Yuuri’s skin, leaving him sensitive and cold to the touch. Viktor hums at his squirming, setting his mouth to the other side of his neck.

It takes another long moment of Viktor’s tongue on his neck and Viktor’s hand hard on his side for Yuuri to recover his thoughts enough to realise what’s happening—and what isn’t.

“This isn’t me touching you,” he says breathlessly. He’d said that he wanted to, hadn’t he? _I want to touch you_ , or something like that. So why is Viktor the one doing all the touching?

Viktor rises up enough to meet Yuuri’s gaze. “Relationships are give and take,” he says. His heavy-lidded gaze renders it seductive. “For now, I’m taking.”

He lifts Yuuri’s shirt, pulling it up and up, his hands caressing all that bared skin a moment before he sinks down to taste.

“I’m sweaty,” Yuuri cautions. “I didn’t mean we should—”

Viktor licks a stripe up his ribs, shutting him up. Yuuri’s throat is thick with noises he doesn’t want to let out; he bites his lip when Viktor sucks at the hard nub of his nipple, but a soft keening noise escapes him nonetheless. He’s too aware of Viktor’s hands everywhere, his mouth, his own arousal. Viktor must notice too; Yuuri’s cock is pressed against his chest after all, obvious despite layers of clothes. Yuuri can’t turn away to hide it however much he wants to. He’s held captive under Viktor’s weight, his mouth.

“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes. He should have let Viktor delay them; his skin is salty, and Viktor refuses to stop licking. He moves to Yuuri’s other nipple, magnanimous in his teasing. “Viktor,” Yuuri says again, trying to get his attention.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Viktor asks. His hair is falling over his face.

Yuuri forgets what he was going to say. The answer to that is always going to be yes, but his throat is thick to vocalise it.

Viktor goes back to his onesided kissing, caressing Yuuri’s leg as he goes: from his glutes down to the inside of his knee and back again, massaging hard. Does he know what it stimulates? He must know, the same way he knew about Yuuri’s arousal: Yuuri’s squirming response is obvious, though involuntary. He feels out of control.

“Yes,” he says at last, much too late, much too soft—but Viktor hears him. Viktor’s mouth moves to press a kiss beneath Yuuri’s belly button, his fingers no longer gripping hard as he trails them along the lines there, testament to Yuuri’s weight loss and gain. Yuuri glances down to see Viktor smile, and then Viktor is pulling at his tracksuit bottoms and Yuuri can’t look anymore. He’s exquisitely embarrassed, wanting to be touched but not seen. The comment about it still being day starts to make a little bit of sense; can he really stand Viktor seeing him like this, with the sun shining outside?

His mind falls to just white noise a moment later. Viktor has pressed a slow, wet kiss against his length. A second passes, another—and then hot indignation pours through Yuuri. “You said touch!” he yells. He hasn’t washed today, he worked out, he’s covered in salt—

“Did I?” Viktor asks. His voice is deep, and he sounds completely unconcerned. He _is_ completely unconcerned, Yuuri thinks hotly, because in the next moment he dips down over Yuuri’s cock, and Yuuri rises up just in time to see him take it into his mouth.

The white noise is back, more complete than the time before. Yuuri’s life doesn’t flash before his eyes, but he sees his posters, all those years of Viktor’s face on his walls, all the different pictures lovingly collected, and his disbelieving eyes insist this is happening. Viktor is sucking him off, lashes obscuring his eyes from view, hair still perfectly arranged because only Yuuri has been pulled apart today.

Viktor dips down. His mouth is furnace-hot, wet, perfect. His tongue flattens hard against the underside of Yuuri’s cock—and then Yuuri is coming, trying to pull himself away, reaching down to come into his hand, but Viktor isn’t letting him, bobbing up and down until there’s nothing left inside of Yuuri. Yuuri thinks he feels his soul leave too.

Viktor’s body twitches. His eyes are pressed closed, face briefly hidden from view, and then he slowly withdraws his mouth. For a long moment he’s motionless, seeming lost in thought as he looks at Yuuri’s spit-slick cock, and if Yuuri had a soul left in him to squirm in embarrassment he would, but he doesn’t. He’s relieved when Viktor moves nonetheless, though it’s only to pull Yuuri’s bottoms up. He seems curiously reluctant—and then he glances up to meet Yuuri’s gaze. There’s something almost vulnerable about his expression, and Yuuri doesn’t know what to put it down to: the pink in his cheeks, the flick of his tongue against his lips, his eyes. Yuuri feels it reflected in his own face, though, and doesn’t know how to stop it.

“I didn’t—” he starts at the same time as Viktor says, “I got carried away.”

They look at each other—and then Viktor comes back up, and Yuuri meets him halfway. They collide, kissing desperately, and Yuuri wonders if they’ll ever be done. He pulls at Viktor’s shirt, Viktor falling onto him again, and Yuuri tastes himself on his tongue but it’s only tangy and not repulsive. Even with his lust slated he doesn’t ever want to stop.

“You were so responsive,” Viktor says when they draw apart, and his voice carries a note of apology. “I didn’t plan it out that way at all, but when I saw you like that…”

“Responsive,” Yuuri echoes, mentally substituting it with _inexperienced_. He’d come in two seconds flat. Viktor had said he was taking, but isn’t Yuuri the only one who came? He tries to reach between their bodies, but Viktor grabs his hand.

“Ah, uh.”

“Viktor?”

Viktor’s head drops against Yuuri’s collar. “I didn’t plan it out that way.”

Yuuri lies quietly for a moment, processing. Viktor’s embarrassment, his repeated assurances that he didn’t plan things like this—did he come too? Is that possible? He doesn’t remember what Viktor’s hands were doing; his thoughts had been a blur, his senses dulled down to one locale. The world might have ended and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Did you…?”

Viktor clears his throat. “It’s been a long time for me too.”

When their eyes meet Viktor’s cheeks have reddened again. It’s endearing, causing a different kind of pull in Yuuri’s stomach: not arousal but love. Viktor did come, then. Yuuri can’t help feeling pleased. He did nothing, but it’s clear his body was enough for Viktor—that his excitement was echoed, no matter the gap in their experiences. There’s only one problem.

“I didn’t get to touch you,” he says tentatively.

“I was going to let you,” Viktor says. “But… ah.”

“And I was disgusting,” Yuuri adds, settling into a rhythm of self-deprecation.

“Anything but,” Viktor says, pressing a kiss to the underside of Yuuri’s jaw.

 “We have time,” Yuuri says. “Not just now, because I have to go to the studio, but—we do, don’t we?”

He waits for Viktor to meet his eyes. The descending sun is making the room glow gold, and it emphasises the stillness as Viktor draws up to look at him. Yuuri’s stomach squirms.

“Yes,” Viktor says. His expression is soft. “We do.”

Yuuri lets himself savour that confirmation for just a moment. _We do._ They have time, for now. Maybe only stolen moments, but it’s enough. He’ll get to touch in time—he’ll get to take his time, sometime. If he promises himself more Viktor later, he knows he can work hard at practice. He’ll cram every moment of his day with activity if he has to, if that’s how he can have moments like this with Viktor.

It’s past time for him to be at Minako’s studio.

“Good,” he says slowly. He kisses Viktor a last time, tracing fingers under his chin. He shivers a little with pleasure; he’ll smell like Viktor after this. “I have to get to the studio.”

Viktor blinks.

Yuuri squirms out from under him and stands. The sight of Viktor on the bed, like an advertisement for that _later_ he promised himself, forces him to bend down for another kiss, and another. Viktor reciprocates, looking shell-shocked after each.

“Be back in a bit,” Yuuri says, and sails out the door.


	5. Lover Slash Coach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Clara (an amaaaazing yoi artist and GUIDING LIGHT IN LIFE http://claramarla.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art) for bombarding me with ideas and helping me work out some of my frustrations when I sent out a cry for help. You're amazing.
> 
> ALSO! All of you reading this are amazing. Thank you for the continued support. I hope you'll like this Viktor PoV chapter!

After Yuuri leaves Viktor hides his face in the coverlet, embarrassment and disbelief warring inside of him. Embarrassment because he’d planned it so differently, imagined it a hundred different ways that were nothing like what had just happened—he’d been just as quick to come as Yuuri had, and in his own underwear like a teenager—and disbelief because he’d given Yuuri his first sexual experience, the first in his whole life, and Yuuri had…

Yuuri had…

_Left?_

Viktor groans. Every time he grabs hold of some fantasy Yuuri finds a way to bat it from his hands, seemingly by accident. It’s true of Viktor’s reception in Japan and it’s true of this moment, now, alone on his bed while Yuuri goes off to practice more. Viktor had teased that Yuuri needed to go to the studio soon, but he hadn’t expected him to _actually do it_. He’d expected the shift between them to take hours. Maybe he’d need to reassure Yuuri, or something, instead of—well, this.

The urge to roll around in a cloud of self-pity is strong, but no matter how embarrassed he is about getting overexcited like a teenager, he isn’t one, and getting sulky won’t help. He sits up, rubs his face. When he closes his eyes he sees Yuuri again the way he was a moment ago—the taste is still in his mouth—and his heart kicks up. Their encounter was anything but romantic, but he swears he still feels butterflies.

He allows himself a hopeless glance at the ceiling. Even if he doesn’t indulge in self-pity, what is he meant to do with all these other feelings? He wishes he knew who to call, experiencing the lack of a confidant keenly; he’d like to call someone even if all they did was laugh at his predicament. Chris might laugh, but it feels wrong to give him that much insight into their relationship—like he’s giving him an advantage, somehow, and Chris is a rival for Yuuri.

Phone silent and useless, he cleans himself up and goes in search of Makkachin. The first stop is the kitchen—where, predictably, Makkachin is watching Yuuri’s father with a level of attentiveness that can only be born of self-interest. He lies on the floor a safe distance away from Yuuri’s busy father, tail wagging, but he stands when he sees Viktor, alerting Yuuri’s dad.

“Ah, Viktor!” Yuuri’s dad says, accent thick and merry. “Hello!”

His round face causes a swell of sudden self-consciousness to bloom inside Viktor.  He’s fairly sure Yuuri’s parents have tacitly approved his and Yuuri’s relationship since before it started, but he only just rolled out of bed with their son. _He doesn’t_ know, Viktor reminds himself forcefully, smiling over his discomfort.

“Good afternoon,” he greets in Japanese, probably just as accented as Yuuri’s dad’s English. Then, because his Japanese isn’t good enough for much more than that, he gestures at Makkachin and asks in English, “Has he been for a walk?”

Yuuri’s father motions for Viktor to repeat himself. “Eh? Hm?”

“A walk. Aru… ku?” Viktor mimes walking with his fingers, then points at Makkachin and tilts his head. “Already? Today?”

“Ah! No walk. No no. You go?”

Viktor smiles a little painfully. He wishes Japanese were easier for him, that it resembled his other languages more, but it’s hard, and he’s no better at it than Yuuri’s family is at English, even after a good amount of study and somewhat involuntary immersion. Each time he talks to older folk alone he wishes he’d studied harder, but lately he finds himself filling his free time with things he wants to do instead of things he should. Yuuri’s good English makes him lazy.

“Hai,” he says. “I’ll go!” He smiles brightly, and Yuuri’s dad smiles brightly back, and then he and Makkachin are waved out of the kitchen. Makkachin follows him out of the inn without complaint, though Viktor swears he sees dismay on his poodle face at the blustery day outside. The ruffling of Makkachin’s hair is comical—cute.

“It’s good for you,” Viktor tells him, striding resolutely, then stops. Makkachin stops too, looking up at him with doe eyes, brown and innocent. “Unless you really don’t want to?”

It _is_ cold, and Makkachin is an old dog. Viktor is restless and a little lonely, but he’s not cruel.

Bark! Makkachin wags his tail, presses his head against Viktor’s hand, then trots off down the path towards the beach. Viktor’s heart squeezes.

_Good dog_ , he thinks, blocking off the part of himself that likes to keep a running commentary on poodle lifespans. He follows Makkachin’s waving tail down to the beach and finds the sea a roiling mess when he gets there. Waves crash against the sand, the air thick with brine. It’s as calming as the inn’s hot spring in its own way, that churning grey mass of water, like watching the world act out his own uncertainty for him. Makkachin runs off down the shore, leaving him to gaze out on the vastness alone.

_What do you want me to be to you?_ he remembers asking here. It feels like a long time ago. It _was_ a long time ago, where his feelings are concerned. He’d known what Yuuri was to him back then: a mystery, a promise, someone to hang new hopes on, even though they kept slipping from his shoulders. Yuuri had been so introspective that day—so unexpectedly open—Viktor had thought he might address their previous connection, the bold invitation at the banquet and subsequent remorse, but he hadn’t. _I want you to stay who you are_ , Yuuri had said.

Viktor ducks his head into his scarf. He remembers Yuuri underneath him, stifling his voice, thighs bunching under his touch. Viktor managed it, the grand seduction, but nothing ever goes as planned. He didn’t manage to make it romantic even after all that waiting. He wonders what Yuuri will do now, how he’ll act when he returns from the ballet studio. Will there be another flat-out denial, or have they crossed that bridge?

No, they’ve crossed it, regardless of Yuuri’s response. If Yuuri pretends nothing happened, Viktor won’t go along with it. Yuuri made him a promise: no regrets.

He likes that promise, and he’ll hold Yuuri to it. That’s all he needs to do.

_Good._ He always feels better when he has a plan of action, and when he returns to the inn half an hour later he feels almost normal. All through dinner—which Yuuri is late to, as he often is—he wonders how he should act when Yuuri gets back. Petulant? Nonchalant? Should he even let on that he’d been floored when Yuuri left immediately after?

When Yuuri walks into the dining room, shedding coat and scarf, all thoughts of how to act flee. Yuuri is wearing a loose cotton shirt and trousers, looking totally ordinary—except for a rosy mark on his neck.

A mark Viktor doesn’t remember leaving there, but must have.

_Oops_ , he thinks, his earlier embarrassment returning to him magnified. How old is he, to be leaving hickeys? It makes no difference to him, but Yuuri worries about things—doesn’t he?

Yuuri spots him and smiles, his whole face lighting up, and it’s so unexpected Viktor’s borrowed discomfort at everyone in the dining room seeing that hickey falls dead to the ground. Some part of him had been sure Yuuri would come back looking like he’d aged ten years, having had time to regret everything, but he looks—ardent, or something, like he’s still caught up in the afterglow hours later.

Viktor’s eyes fall back down to that hickey. _No class_ , he thinks, caught between awkwardness and amusement as others in the room notice the mark and turn their eyes politely away. Yuuri is unaware—how can he be, when he must have seen it in the studio mirror for hours?—and as if to cement the impression that hickey leaves, he comes right over to Viktor without seeming to notice the rest of the room, his face flushed like he’s the poster boy for infatuation.

A second look at Yuuri’s adoring, no-regrets face banishes any lingering anxiety. If Yuuri isn’t worried, why should he be? He smiles, wishing they weren’t in public.

“Hey,” Yuuri says in a rush, dropping down opposite Viktor. Makkachin goes to sit beside him, and he’s so out of it he lets Makkachin lick his face three times before noticing and batting him aside; that’s a whole two times more than usual. The way his eyes trawl every visible part of Viktor leaves little doubt about what’s got him distracted. It feels almost obscene, and worse is the part of Viktor that responds to seeing this obvious mark of appetite in Yuuri.

_You knew_ , Viktor thinks, with regards to Yuuri’s libido. _You always knew._

But it’s one thing to know and another to be reminded with quite this… immediacy.

Yuuri’s mother arrives with his dinner, saying something in Japanese. Viktor catches _kitchen_ and Yuuri’s apologetic response and gathers Yuuri should have grabbed his own food before sitting down. If his mother has anything to say about the hickey she keeps it to herself for now, and Viktor makes a silent promise not to leave any more marks for Yuuri’s parents’ sake. He doesn’t remember leaving the first mark anyway; just a blur of immediacy and Yuuri pushing up against him, wanting him and showing it. No wonder Viktor’s mind is partially blank with regards to earlier; it probably short-circuited sometime during the act.

“How was the studio?” he asks, setting his chin on his palm and leaning. Yuuri scarfs down food with gusto, replying in sounds only a telepath could interpret.

Viktor’s mouth trembles with suppressed laughter. How had he wanted to handle this again? He forgets. He forgets a lot of things when he’s with Yuuri.

“Enlightening,” Viktor comments when the sounds are done, and Yuuri looks up from his bowl to meet his gaze—and Viktor’s amusement catches. Yuuri snorts, then coughs.

“Rice,” he says when he’s done choking. “Up my nose. Ha! The studio was good. Minako-sensei complimented me a lot.”

He bends down over his food again to inhale the rest of it, and when he’s done he looks up so expectantly Viktor feels his stomach drop. _What does he…?_

He doesn’t have time to come to any conclusions, because suddenly Yuuri is standing to bring their dishes to the kitchen. A short argument with Mari is followed by Yuuri properly putting the dishes in the dishwasher, but soon he’s back, and he points down the hall, and Viktor follows as obediently as Makkachin does.

Yuuri leads them to Viktor’s room before closing the door behind them. The silence is muted by sounds from the inn, comforting somehow, and then Yuuri is stretching to kiss Viktor’s cheek. His lips are just a bit dry from the cold, his scent strong from sweating all day. When he draws back the soft room light casts shadows on his face, emphasising the lashes on his downcast eyes, and he looks so innocent Viktor briefly feels a hundred times his age. He reminds himself of Yuuri’s poledancing to dispel the impression, but it doesn’t totally work; Yuuri is still a guy experiencing his first requited love, and it renders him in flattering colours.

“I need to go get clean,” Yuuri says. He sounds reluctant. “But I wanted to do that first.”

_Kiss me?_ Viktor thinks. He feels weak again. He vaguely remembers having wanted to discuss earlier somehow, to say he’d wanted to stay a while, but he’s not sure how to discuss those things without feeling more vulnerable. Instead of that—instead of some corny yet heartfelt request for Yuuri to be gentle with him—he traces his fingers against the bruise he left without noticing.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says. Did Yuuri really not see? But no—Yuuri’s hand comes up to cover it, his face flooding with colour.

“Ah,” he says. “I noticed while I was practicing. I don’t mind.”

That’s a surprise. “You don’t?”

“I mean it’s like… a reminder.” Yuuri’s face is dark, eyes not meeting Viktor’s.

Viktor’s chest is unbearably warm; he can’t help taking advantage of the moment. He trails a finger under Yuuri’s jaw, leans down to brush his lips against his cheek. “Or a promise.”

He hears Yuuri’s gasp of breath, deeply affected—and then Yuuri is pushing him away. “Stop! I need to bathe!”

Does Yuuri really think Viktor is the one doing the seducing, instead of being seduced? Viktor sighs. He already bathed earlier, after his walk, but he’s tempted to do it again just to spend more time with Yuuri.

Probably better not to. He doesn’t know how he’ll react to Yuuri buck-naked with that bruise his only adornment.

Yuuri sneaks past him to leave, out the door like a vanishing dream—like Viktor was going to stop him and ravish him again. Viktor takes a few steps to the bed and lets himself fall. Makkachin immediately joins him, settling on his chest.

“What do I do?” Viktor asks. Makkachin snuffles, which is an answer, but not one Viktor understands. He throws an arm over his face. “I thought I was prepared.”

Perhaps his old confidence was just conceit. Isn’t he here to enjoy the ride? Does it matter that he feels unprepared? That’s never stopped him before; ice skating just happened to be more predictable than Yuuri is.

He’s still staring at the ceiling lost in thought when Yuuri comes back in, and one look at him tells Viktor the bath did him in. Yuuri’s eyelids are drooping, and the way he straightens from a stoop as he nears the bed tells Viktor he’s gathering up his energy.

_To please me?_ Viktor thinks, a few steps to amused—but he’s also a coach, and even if Yuuri wants to run himself ragged Viktor won’t go along with it.

“Sleep,” Viktor says. This seems to wake Yuuri up—marginally.

“I’m not tired.”

“Maybe your head isn’t. How sore are you?”

Yuuri’s shoulders slump. “Right now I just feel heavy. But I wanted…”

In a supreme feat of acting, Viktor pretends to be disinterested in how that sentence ends when it trails off. “We have time. You need to rest.”

The bleak look Yuuri sends him seems overblown, but Viktor braces himself against wheedling. As it happens, he doesn’t have to; Yuuri crawls into bed defeated, his easy acquiescence an obvious sign that he needed it. Viktor gets up to turn the lights off, then joins Yuuri.

Yuuri lets out a long breath.

“Hm?” Viktor inquires.

“It’s not long. It always feels like so much time between competitions, but then all that time disappears.”

“Mm.” Viktor wonders why Yuuri sounds so sad. Is he nervous? “You’ll do wonderfully, Yuuri. I’ll tag along tomorrow to make sure.”

“Can we try the pair skating again?”

“The day after. I don’t want you focused on it.”

“It went well, didn’t it?”

Viktor smiles. “Yes.” Skating that song with Yuuri felt like being found, somehow—like being lost in a foreign town only to turn a corner and find himself in his own neighbourhood. Old and new blend together into a new life—a life he loves.

A person he loves.

Yuuri is quiet, and soon—very soon—he twitches with the onset of sleep. Viktor lets out a breath. He’s filled with liquid heat, molten, but he knows what it’s like to come home after a day of that kind of practice. Is he letting Yuuri work himself too hard?

_Don’t all of us work ourselves too hard?_

He pets a sleeping Makkachin. He knew being a coach and a lover at the same time would be hard—he’d realised sometime after coming to Hasetsu—but it might be even harder than expected. How can he balance his own needs and his responsibility as coach?

His confidence saves him, in the end, so perhaps it’s conceit after all. _I’ll work it out somehow_ , he thinks. Five gold medals can do that to a person. If it’s conceit that brought him to Hasetsu, that allowed him to think he could coach Katsuki Yuuri to new heights, then conceit has done him a service. He turns onto his side resolutely.

What he doesn’t know now, he’ll make up as he goes. He’s pretty good at that.

 

* * *

 

 

Days pass, bringing Rostelecom ever closer. Viktor’s contemplative mood proves lasting, except when he and Yuuri practice their pair skate. While skating, he’s unable to think past the here and now. It’s so wildly different from skating alone, and the effect it has on Yuuri is addicting. Viktor remembers the posters in Yuuri’s room, still with vague disbelief—though perhaps his disbelief is nothing compared to Yuuri’s.

_Why didn’t you take me as soon as you had me?_ Viktor wonders. Those posters had spawned more questions than answers—as usual. It doesn’t matter now. He’s here, desperately trying to be a coach and a lover, though the emphasis falls very naturally on the first. He has a vision for Yuuri, and it doesn’t end with him losing at the Grand Prix because his coach was too busy daydreaming.

Viktor makes sure his criticism is as sharp as ever, and Yuuri seems to find comfort in that. It’s all Viktor can really do at this point; Yuuri is stubborn and determined, and he has a good sense of what he needs to improve on. Viktor might not be the best coach—not yet—but Yuuri’s critical view of himself does a lot of the coaching for him. Viktor doesn’t have to ask to know that Yuuri’s insecurities often send him to the rink or the studio.

As Yuuri’s coach, he approves. As Yuuri’s lover, he puts himself past impatience—even when a drained and bruised Yuuri tries to put the moves on him at the end of every day. Yuuri’s level of exhaustion makes it easy to resist. He doesn’t want their next encounter to be a flop. When Yuuri loses patience one night and calls Viktor a control freak, Viktor’s patience snaps right back.

“Maybe,” he says, wearing a tight smile. Yuuri is always temptation incarnate to Viktor—but his attempts at seduction are lacklustre at best, not the least because his body is worn out each time he attempts them. Can’t Yuuri see how insulting that is, no matter how much Viktor wants to give in? He’s frustrated with both of them.

“It’s not maybe. I want more. I’m ready, I said I was, and—”

“Stop half-assing it,” Viktor interrupts, and hears the anger in his tone—anger he was mostly unaware of. Where did it come from? The bedroom lights are still on, and he can see the shock on Yuuri’s face. They stand opposite each other, breathing hard; Yuuri had been trying to pull Viktor’s shirt off when Viktor’s refusal precipitated the argument. It’s too late to take his words back now, though, and Viktor finds he doesn’t want to; he continues on.

“Commit, or don’t start at all. Do you think I like being an afterthought?”

It sounds worse once it’s out, but he can’t unsay it. Yuuri’s eyes widen. He looks around the room as if for an answer, frowns in an odd, absent way.

“I think I should sleep in my room tonight,” he mumbles. For a moment anger swells inside Viktor—he wants Yuuri to face him like in the parking lot, not retreat—but concern is hot on its heels.

“Yuuri, I’m not—”

“I don’t want you resenting me,” Yuuri says. He opens his mouth to say more, but he swallows it a moment later. He goes, and Viktor is left feeling utterly deflated.

_That’s not what I wanted_ , he thinks vaguely. He wants to enjoy the bloom of first love with Yuuri, but not in snatches of borrowed time—not with Yuuri weak after a long day and pulling at his shirt in grim determination, his impatience offensive even as it flatters. Is Viktor demanding too much?

Makkachin looks at him, then the door, clearly wondering who he’s meant to stay with.

“You’re not allowed to pick sides,” Viktor tells him. “We’ll make up, and you’ll feel bad after.”

Makkachin wags his tail slightly, and Viktor smiles past his tight stomach. They’ll make up. They will—but is Yuuri angry now? Sad? Viktor already wants to apologise. He’s sure of his own convictions, but his execution… he sighs. Was it too harsh? This isn’t the kind of criticism Yuuri knows how to take. It’s his first time in a relationship.

Minutes pass. Viktor stands in his room wasting time. The soles of his feet begin to ache, calling for him to shift his weight—and then he goes out in the hallway. His reflection in the many windows looks rumpled, a messy version of himself. That seems appropriate.

He knocks on Yuuri’s door.

“I want to apologise,” he says through it, and waits for a response. It’s a long time coming, but Viktor is patient. He’ll give it a good long while before he opens the door.

Eventually Yuuri stops the silent treatment, though the door stays closed. When Yuuri speaks it’s not what Viktor expected to hear.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he says.

Relief makes Viktor’s knees weak. At least Yuuri isn’t in there burning effigies of him. He has plenty of posters to rip up if he wants to.

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Viktor says.

“I was stupid.” Yuuri’s voice has gotten closer; he’s on the other side of the closed door. “I thought you were waiting for my sake, part of your stupid choreography. It never occurred to me you were waiting for yourself.”

_My stupid choreography?_ Viktor wonders. He’ll have to ask about that later. He sets his forehead against the door, needing the support. He feels almost giddy with relief. He’d come here half-expecting Yuuri to shut him out, to shut down the way he has in the past, and surprise at the issue being resolved so quickly leaves his body weak and tingling.

“Yuuri,” he says. Relief makes him not just giddy but honest, desperate. “I want you so much.”

“You’re not allowed to say that right now!”

“I know.”

“You… want me to seduce you, right?”

Ah, that embarrassed tone of voice. Viktor has almost missed it—missed seeing Yuuri push himself to claim him. He smiles, eyes closed, still leaning on the door for support. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Yuuri pauses for a long time, then: “Good night, Viktor.”

Viktor’s eyes open. Pleased as he is at this peaceful resolution, he’s disappointed. Can’t they kiss and make up and go to bed together? He loves sleeping with Yuuri, knowing he can reach out to touch his hair, his hand, reassure himself he’s real. _Mine_ , a part of him thinks when he sees Yuuri in the bed beside him, and he doesn’t suppress it often. Maybe he’s deluding himself—he’s sure Yakov thinks so—but he sees a future with Yuuri. Not a future he imagined before, but one that has become more precious to him than any previous imaginings.

Perhaps he shouldn’t push it, though. They’re still new at this, and he isn’t always the best at predicting Yuuri’s state of mind. He considers it a sacrifice, but he doesn’t kick up a fuss.

“Good night,” he says, not moving. He likes it here. He likes the imagery of standing outside Yuuri’s door, the drama of the pose not lost on him. He’s getting used to standing at closed doors, unsure—but unlike when he first came to Japan, he actually stands a chance now. Not just of sex, but of love. Of understanding. He wants Yuuri to make good on all the things he hasn’t quite promised, wants him to take another step to acknowledge the ebb and flow between them.

“Are you still standing there?” Yuuri asks suddenly, and Viktor nearly jumps. Yuuri’s voice comes from inches away, clearly still standing on the other side of the door. He’d expected Yuuri to fall back into bed the moment the conversation was over.

There’s no point in lying. Yuuri can probably see his shadow under the door if he looks. “Yes,” Viktor says.

“Go to bed.”

Screw not pushing things; Viktor has always pushed things. “Will you give me a good night kiss?” he asks.

There’s a beat, and then the door opens slowly, giving Viktor plenty of time to readjust his weight. Yuuri stands in the door opening, looking tired and dishevelled and somehow all the more attractive for it. Viktor’s heart swells.

“Tells me to stop kissing,” Yuuri grumbles, reaching for Viktor’s face, “then tells me to start again.”

Yuuri’s expression is uncertain, and Viktor smiles. The joke is to make sure things are okay between them; the assessing way Yuuri looks at him confirms it. Viktor leans down, letting Yuuri take his face between his hands, and the slow patience of Yuuri’s kiss melts him to the bone. Yuuri’s mouth is warm, the taste of him clean and sweet. Viktor sighs into it, tingles with longing and enjoyment. The sweep of Yuuri’s tongue is undemanding, but it makes Viktor want to give everything he has.

This is what he was looking for. He didn’t know how to ask for it until frustration crumbled his temper—or perhaps he was too prideful to address his own needs without prompting. He ought to be grateful to Yuuri for forcing the issue when he would have let it drag on, thinking he was being a good coach instead of a bad lover.

 “Viktor,” Yuuri says when he pulls back. He looks up into Viktor’s face, and his hand comes up to edge his bangs aside, smoothing them back to their usual place. The light brush of his fingertips against his forehead sends shivers down Viktor’s spine, making him close his eyes in enjoyment.

“Yes, Yuuri?”

“I really am sorry.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“Why not? I treated you like you’d just be okay with everything, and then—”

Viktor sets a finger over Yuuri’s mouth. “That’s a fault we both have. I was okay. I liked your enthusiasm.”

Yuuri lets out a breath; the hallway light reveals his embarrassed expression, but also his relief.

Viktor isn’t done. “But you were tired—are tired—and if you fell asleep right after, I might have had to kill you.”

When Yuuri looks up at Viktor’s smile he blanches. “Right,” he says. “Right. Understood.”

Viktor is sure he has; that cowed look speaks volumes. Satisfied now, Viktor lets his smile transform into something less innocently threatening and sees Yuuri relax. He trails a thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip.

“Sweet dreams,” he says. His voice is low; he sees a shiver go through Yuuri.

“You too.”

“Good night.”

Yuuri’s voice is choked. “You already said. Go.”

He says that, but his fingers clutch at Viktor’s shirt. If Viktor pushes, he could get Yuuri to sleep in his bed, he’s sure—but anticipation is no bad thing. He lets out a sigh and steps back.

“Don’t dream of anyone but me,” he commands, and sees Yuuri’s exasperated expression before he turns. He’s halfway to the door when he hears Yuuri mumble—for him to hear or to the air, Viktor’s not sure—

“As if I would.”

Viktor grins as he slides open his own door and enters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My cry for help still goes; I'd love to hear from you if there are things you're excited to see in this fic. (http://mysecretfanmoments.tumblr.com/post/155453129892/mysecretfanmoments-is-asking-what-people-want-to). Also I have a cold so if you'd like to restore my life energy with comments I'd hugely appreciate it... (⁄ ⁄◕⁄ω⁄◕⁄ ⁄✿)


	6. Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support. So many wonderful, insightful comments. I'm so lucky, and I hope you enjoy! (Oh, and my cold is all better, thank you!)
> 
> If you like to skip smut, ctrl+f to "he wants to go"

Exhaustion tugs at Yuuri’s limbs, but short of a blow to the head, there’s no way he’ll calm down. He wonders if he should have argued from that angle with Viktor—that it’d be faster simply to have sex and then sleep than to go to sleep without it.

 _But that wasn’t the problem_ , he reminds himself. The problem is that Viktor has, in that perfectionist mind of his, set sex at the very top of some very high tower. It’s not a matter of letting off steam anymore. When they progress, it won’t be quick like last time; Viktor won’t let it be quick. By all appearances, he regrets how fast it was last time.

Yuuri won’t point out the irony to him any time soon, when _he_ was the one who had to promise not to regret anything. It’s not the right time for a reproof like that. He’s embarrassed he didn’t pick up on signals, so blinded by lust he’d just wanted to get close, close, as close as it got.

Viktor wants to be seduced.

Before he’s quite decided to call anyone, Yuuri has unlocked his phone. It’s before nine still, which means it’s before seven in the morning in Detroit. Phichit is about to embark on the day that’s almost at an end for Yuuri. He might still be asleep—but Yuuri calls anyway, through an app that lets him do it for free.

“Yuuri?”

Phichit’s voice is heavy with sleep. Guilt pricks at Yuuri, but he doesn’t let himself second-guess the impulse to call.

“Phichit-kun,” he says. “Good morning.”

For a while there’s no response, and Yuuri worries Phichit has gone back to sleep—but it’s the opposite. “Oh,” Phichit says, and the excitement in his voice is catching, “this is going to be good, isn’t it?”

“I want to seduce Viktor.”

Phichit’s laugh is muffled; Yuuri has the distinct impression he’s laughing into a pillow.

“Again?” Phichit says finally.

Yuuri repeats himself, which sets off another gale of laughter.

“I meant that you’ve already seduced him, not that you… I can’t believe…” Phichit trails off, still half-laughing, then sighs. “That’s the most I’ve laughed all week. Yuuri, come back to Detroit.”

“Come to Japan,” Yuuri counters, smiling. It’d be nice to live closer to Phichit; there aren’t a lot of people he feels that comfortable around, or who can make him forget himself so easily. Phichit has a kind of charm that will take the world by storm someday. “Anyway, I don’t mean I want to make him interested in me. I just… how do you…”

“Yes?”

“How do you make someone feel special? How do you _make_ it special? I don’t really know.”

Phichit makes thinking sounds, then takes a deep breath. “Well. First—and this is an important step—I think it’d help to have a lot of posters of him up in your room, you know, really idolise him for _years_ —”

“Phichit!” Yuuri hisses into the phone so loud he makes himself jump. He glances at the door.

 _Viktor is in bed_ , he reminds himself. Probably pretending to be the abandoned lover even though he’s the one making things difficult. It’s not that Yuuri doesn’t want whatever they do to be special; he just happens to know anything they do will be special regardless. He’ll treasure his time with Viktor for years—for the rest of his life. He wants to enjoy every second he can.

He wants to run his hands over Viktor’s bare skin again.

“Sorry,” Phichit says. “Well—isn’t it meant to be quite simple? You make time, you do things they like, you enjoy each other’s company. What does Viktor like?”

The list that conjures up in Yuuri’s head isn’t helpful. Him, Makkachin, various people around them, certain foods, certain brands… “I can’t buy him something on short notice, and I can’t cook that well. It—”

“Yuuri. What does he like you to do?”

“Oh!” That’s easier. “But I have so little time. All the practice…”

“You only have a few days before leaving for Rostelecom, right? Take one of them off.”

Yuuri bites his lip.

“I know it makes you nervous, but that doesn’t matter. Take a half day, if a full day is too much. I want to see you in Barcelona, but you’re already on your game. One day won’t make a difference.”

 _I want to see you in Barcelona_.

“I’ll see you there,” Yuuri says, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Oh? You’ve figured it all out?”

“That’s probably an overestimate...”

Phichit laughs, then stops abruptly. “Ah! Boyfriend shirt!”

“What?”

“Wear his shirt. It’s meant to be sexy.”

“I already wear his old skating costume.”

“That’s different! Ah, oops—” there’s a sound of a distant alarmclock, then the sound of some things being knocked aside. Phichit’s voice is breathier when he speaks again. “Sorry about that. Anyway, he’s already in love with you, isn’t he? I’m sure anything you do is fine. Your instincts have worked so far. I’ve got to get ready!”

“Ah, yes. Thank you! Good luck!”

The phone beeps, and Yuuri lets it drop. He stares into his own dark bedroom, surrounded by familiar smells, and wonders if wearing the right shirt is the key to Viktor’s heart. He laughs a little. No, that can’t be. But the advice about taking time away from skating seems like it might be useful. Excitement squirms in his belly at the thought of spending time with Viktor. He’s been working so hard he doesn’t think Viktor will object to Phichit’s suggestion; Yuuri can skate tomorrow morning during his regular time slot at the rink and take the rest of the day off. They can walk with Makkachin, hold hands, talk, spend time at the inn…

He falls asleep mid-fantasy, and his dreams are caught somewhere between sweetness and frustration—just like his waking hours.

 

* * *

 

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” Yuuri tells Viktor the next day as he takes off his skates. The cold air of the locker room provides some relief against his too-hot feet, a sensation he’s always associated with a day well spent—but the day isn’t over.

“Hm?”

Yuuri looks up. Viktor stands a few paces away, arms folded, and now his head is tilted in question.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” Yuuri repeats.

The spread of Viktor’s smile is slow—but tinged with something else. “As your coach, shouldn’t that be my call?”

Yuuri stands on bare feet. There’s a moment of readjusting to his new height—shorter—as he moves to stand next to Viktor, but he’s almost used to it by the time he’s placing his hands on Viktor’s chest, looking up at him. “Coach. I’m so tired. I think I need a day off.”

It’s hard to read Viktor’s face. For a long moment Yuuri fears Viktor will tell him he needs to keep working, that something about this approach is wrong again—and then Viktor sighs a laugh, his head dropping onto Yuuri’s shoulder.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asks, breath tickling Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri shivers at the timber of Viktor’s voice so close to his ear. He has a few ideas, but he’d rather skate naked than say them out loud.

“I want to wash and have lunch,” he says instead. “Then walk with Makkachin.”

“Am I invited?”

“Are you—of course. That’s what I meant.”

Viktor smiles, and they set off back to the inn. Yuuri rushes through washing, changing into a soft navy jumper and khakis after. Not fancy by any means, but not a tracksuit for once. It feels almost strange to wear real clothes instead of going from exercise gear to different exercise gear to sleepwear.

Viktor doesn’t comment on the clothes when Yuuri sits down to eat with him, remembering to bring their food from the kitchen this time, but sometimes silence from Viktor can speak for him. He’s noticed, and Yuuri wishes he could read his mind.

He can’t.

They eat in a silence that’s not quite companionable, but not… uncomfortable, either. Yuuri’s stomach is tight with pleasant nervousness, and only strength of will allows him to force food down. When their dishes are put away, they pull on their coats and head out with Makkachin. The sun is out, the wind cold: a beautiful day, and probably mild for someone from St Petersburg. Viktor still seems too thoughtful, though, and Yuuri wonders how to change that. After a moment of deliberation he grabs Viktor’s hand, linking their fingers together.

Viktor looks down at their hands, and again Yuuri feels that pressing need to see inside his head. He’s half-desperate with it, but he doesn’t ask. When Viktor squeezes his hand, still with that incomprehensible look, Yuuri’s heart squeezes with it.

 _Remember this_ , he thinks. The pain of future loss is nothing; he’s used to pain. This light feeling inside of his chest, however, is brand new. Well, mostly new. _Viktor-new._

Presently Makkachin gambols down the path ahead of them, pretending to be a much younger dog. Yuuri has had a long time to get used to Makkachin, and his cheerful presence no longer sends spearing guilt through him for not being there for Vicchan. He simply enjoys being here with both of them—with Viktor and Makkachin, two figures from legend made real. He smiles, and perhaps Makkachin senses his thoughts because he runs back over to him, shoving him bodily in a show of playfulness.

Yuuri uses his free hand to pet him. “What’s with you?” he scolds half-heartedly, not bothering to use English. “You’re so well-behaved with everyone else.”

“Makkachin doesn’t understand Japanese,” Viktor says, just a hint of petulance in his manner.

“Ah! I told him he’s well-behaved with everyone else, but not with me.”

Viktor sniffs in pretend-offense. “You should be honoured you’re his favourite.”

Makkachin wags his tail hard, and Yuuri slides his gaze to meet Viktor’s. “You know, I read somewhere that dogs take their cues from their owners.”

“Are you saying I’m not well-behaved with you, or that you’re my favourite?”

Yuuri’s cheeks tingle with pleased embarrassment, but he doesn’t answer. Against all expectations, he thinks the second might be as true as the first.

Viktor pulls him in, grasps his face lightly. He won’t let Yuuri get away with this one, apparently. “Well?”

The jolt of panic his intensity elicits in Yuuri is familiar but not all-consuming; it melts to pleasure in seconds, the impulse to run replaced with something warm that keeps Yuuri’s feet planted. “You tell me.”

Yuuri watches the wind tug at Viktor’s hair, riffling through it, pulling it all one way then the other, and the show nearly distracts him from the play of expressions over Viktor’s face. Yuuri’s heart beats hard.

“You’re a cruel katsudon,” Viktor says eventually. “Never acknowledging my feelings out loud.”

 _Three skate programmes aren’t enough?_ Yuuri thinks, and his smile causes an answering smile in Viktor. Viktor’s unwavering gaze has shivers running down Yuuri’s spine.

Makkachin barks.

Yuuri laughs and disentangles himself. “Okay, okay,” he tells Makkachin, following him onto the beach. “You’re right. You deserve attention too.”

He thinks he hears a huff of laughter from Viktor behind him, but with this wind he can’t be sure. He throws a stick as they walk, thoroughly tiring Makkachin out, and when Makkachin’s ears start to droop they head back more sedately. Viktor reclaims Yuuri’s hand.

“This is nice,” Viktor says.

“Yes. I’m glad my coach let me have a day off. Normally he’s very demanding.”

“It’s a half-day. You practiced this morning.”

“See?”

Viktor laughs, and a pleasant silence falls. They walk with hands held the whole way back, only letting go to open the inn doors. Inside, the warm air stings Yuuri’s cold cheeks, and he rakes a hand through his hair. The sea breeze has set knots in it; so much for coming to Viktor’s bed perfectly maintained. They take off their shoes and Makkachin leads them to Viktor’s bedroom, looking ready for a nap—but outside the room Viktor keeps hold of Yuuri’s hand, not following.

“I want to go to your room,” he says.

“Uh?” _But the bed’s bigger in here_ , he doesn’t say. It seems presumptuous.

“Indulge me.”

The command has the shivers back in full force, and Yuuri leads Viktor to his room without protest. Something inside of him jumps when the door closes, but he stays perfectly still before turning to Viktor. Again he helps Viktor out of his coat, curiously reminiscent of a hotel room in Beijing, and by the look on Viktor’s face he might be drawing the same parallels. Yuuri turns to put the coat over his chair, then takes his own off—and as he lays it over Viktor’s Viktor comes up behind him.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, breath in Yuuri’s neck. “Is this your seduction?”

Yuuri’s body goes instantly taut. Every muscle clenches; even his nipples harden at that low-voiced question. For a moment he can’t speak past a throat thick with longing.

 _Don’t mess up_ , he thinks. He wants to laughingly deny it— _who, me? Seduce you?_ —but it’s only his own self-doubt speaking, and that’s not good enough. He wants Viktor, every part of Viktor, and if he has to fake confidence he doesn’t feel to do that it won’t be the first time.

“It doesn’t work as a seduction,” Yuuri complains breathlessly, “if you do it all for me.”

Still, he lets himself lean back into Viktor’s warmth for a moment, savouring the press of his body and his breath in his neck. It feels wonderful, especially when Viktor’s hand slides over his stomach, fingers splayed wide as if to keep him pinned. Like this… no. Like this, he _still_ can’t touch Viktor the way he’s longed to, delicious as it is.

He turns in Viktor’s arms, setting a finger to Viktor’s mouth to keep him from dipping close to kiss him. He can’t give Viktor everything he wants in one go, and so he takes what _he_ wants, leaning to brush his mouth against Viktor’s neck, breathing him in. The scent of cologne and sweat on Viktor is heady, but today it grounds Yuuri instead of flustering him. _Mine_ , he thinks. He kisses below Viktor’s jaw, and down, and then he inhales on the other side, and his chest swells with it. Another kiss, then—lightly—a bite. A soft, lingering kiss to take the sting out.

It seems to him Viktor might be trembling.

Yuuri’s not sure what he’s doing, but he knows what he wants. When he pushes just a little, trying to walk Viktor back to the bed, Viktor goes willingly. Most of the way there, Yuuri’s priorities change; why is Viktor still wearing a shirt? He slides his hands up under it, then pulls up. Viktor lets him, and Yuuri tosses the shirt onto the bed, more concerned with the large expanse of skin to explore now than what to do with clothing. Viktor watches him avidly, hair covering part of his face, and then Yuuri steps too close for him to see. He kisses along Viktor’s collarbone, slides his palms up his back. He touches him with worshipful hands and wonders how he’ll ever stop.

“You had all this inside you,” Viktor says after a long moment, sounding strangled, “and you were going to keep your distance?”

Yuuri draws back. Viktor has his head tilted, eyes closed. Yuuri brushes a hand against his cheek. “I had to," he says. "What if you only wanted to sleep together once? Or… or wanted some casual thing, for you to pass the time while you were in Japan? I don’t think I could bear that.”

Viktor’s eyes open; he smiles. “No, I suppose you couldn’t.”

“Not that I didn’t… imagine…” Yuuri looks at his hand on Viktor’s bare hip, watches it move up Viktor’s side to slide forward over his abs. So strange, to be touching Viktor like this. Viktor’s skin is fever-hot, or perhaps Yuuri’s hand is cold. Either way Viktor doesn’t stop him, and when Yuuri pushes he drops onto the bed.

“Imagine…?” Viktor prompts.

Yuuri’s brain isn’t cooperating. What had he imagined? Everything. He doesn’t know how to phrase it, and as he pushes Viktor back to crawl onto him he simply says, “You know. You saw the posters.”

“I had my suspicions,” Viktor says, grinning. He lets Yuuri push him down, but it’s only a moment before he’s arching his back under Yuuri’s touch, biting his lip at the drag of Yuuri’s fingertips over his nipples. He makes no comment when Yuuri tugs the curtain above the bed shut. “Only then?”

 _Then_ meaning a long time ago, before they’d known each other in real life. Yuuri huffs, running his hands down Viktor’s chest, his stomach, gripping his hips almost experimentally. When he looks up to reply, hotly, Viktor is wetting his bottom lip.

“Well?” Viktor asks, still pursuing his line of inquiry, and Yuuri is tired of being teased. He bends over Viktor’s body, licks his tongue over his nipple. Viktor’s gasp of breath is better than his provocation, much more satisfying.

“What do you think?” Yuuri asks. He sounds less exasperated than he would have a moment ago, and Viktor recognises it as a rhetorical question—either that or he’s too distracted to form a reply. Yuuri touches and licks and kisses, spending every ounce of frustration that’s come from not getting to do this for the past weeks. He remembers how close he’d come in the hotel in Beijing and how he’d missed the mark, unable to push past Viktor’s reservations. He remembers months of Viktor’s constant presence, asking to sleep with him, and how his own body had burned with want while his mind burned with a resolution not to embarrass himself. If Viktor’s squirming is an indication, his hips thrusting up into Yuuri’s middle, the point is getting across.

“Yuuri,” Viktor gasps. “Tell me you have a plan.”

“You’ve known it all along,” Yuuri says. “I told you I wanted to touch you.”

“ _Then touch me_.”

The words—the tone—lance through him. He’d known Viktor was hard—could feel it against him—but he hadn’t known the depths of frustration Viktor was falling to. It makes Yuuri feel powerful, even now, even painfully aware of his own inexperience.

For once he does as Viktor tells him, setting his palm against the outline of Viktor’s cock. Viktor lets out something not quite a sigh—it’s more needy than a sigh—and pushes up against him. Again Yuuri lets himself touch with abandon, but he’s not content to keep his hands in one place for long. He caresses Viktor’s length for a moment longer, then kneels and pulls Viktor’s legs around him for more access. Viktor looks at him through slitted eyes, watching as Yuuri plays with his waistband, teasing for a moment before moving to cup his ass. He kneads the hard muscle there, handles it roughly, and his actions break Viktor’s scrutiny. Viktor arches back in something like frustration. With Viktor like this it’s easy to rub his own cock against Viktor’s—all he has to do is lean forward—and he lets himself for just a moment. He grinds against Viktor, the sensation dulled by fabric, feeding an impatience that lives inside of him day and night. He wants more—everything.

“Off,” Viktor gasps, and Yuuri shifts back. “Clothes,” Viktor clarifies.

“ _That_ ,” Viktor says next, with a sliding glance at Yuuri’s jumper. He sits up to do it himself, licking and kissing Yuuri’s shoulder once it’s bared, and Yuuri gets the impression he’s coming back to himself. _Viktor, too wound up? Viktor, calming himself?_ Very slowly, Viktor unbends. He takes Yuuri’s face and kisses him: soft, sweet, deep. Yuuri melts into it, holding onto Viktor like a lifeline. Bare skin and warmth and Viktor’s smell in his own bedroom will be the impressions he takes with him to Rostelecom. Is that why Viktor wanted to do it here?

An image of Viktor aroused and naked in Yuuri’s lonely, ordinary bed pops up in his mind. It’s not the first time he’s imagined it, but it’s the first time he’s been able to act on it. “Off,” he says, echoing Viktor’s earlier words, and works at Viktor’s bottoms. They’re what Viktor wore to practice this morning, and they slide off without a need for buttons. Yuuri discards all Viktor’s clothes, forcing him to lie back down—and stares.

 _Viktor Nikiforov_. Here, in Yuuri’s bed, his cock lying bare against his abdomen, every centimetre of his skin perfect and exposed. A Viktor ready to be touched, looking up at him with a kind of impatience that sears Yuuri’s self-control. Yuuri bites his lip against a moan of pure want.

“Well?” says Viktor.

Hesitantly, Yuuri goes back to touching him. His hip. The muscled length of his thigh, first the front then the back. His eyes track to the patch of dark, silvery hair at the base of Viktor’s cock. He wants to touch it and—after a glance to meet Viktor’s eyes—he does. The hair is coarser than expected against his fingertips, and he presses his tongue against his front teeth to hold back from saying—well, anything. He doesn’t trust himself, not in the least. He rolls his palm over Viktor’s erection, swallows.

“Can I…” _taste_ , he thinks, but it sounds too dirty. “Do what you did?”

“Yes,” Viktor exhales, and Yuuri drops down. He brushes his lips against the silky skin of Viktor’s shaft, his own need becoming a painful thing inside of him. _Patience_ , he thinks, but he’s beyond patience. His hand clenches on Viktor’s thigh. He licks the underside of Viktor’s cock before—slowly—taking the head into his mouth. Soft skin against his tongue, Viktor’s gasp in his ears.

“Yuuri, can you—”

Yuuri licks down, tongue hard, and Viktor swears.

“Yuuri,” he says when he’s done.

This time Yuuri relents. When he looks up Viktor looks—helpless, almost. Tantalising still, but with a need that calls to the mirror need in Yuuri.

“Can you—can we… I’d like to… together,” Viktor says. He must hear his own stuttering because he laughs abruptly, rubbing his forehead. “How old am I?” he mumbles to himself.

“You’re perfect,” Yuuri answers, though it made more sense in his head; _perfect_ is not an age. His blood supply is low, he supposes. He moves to unbutton his trousers, unsure if it’s what Viktor had wanted, but Viktor nods when their eyes meet. Despite last week—despite the fact that Viktor has already been up close and personal with him—Yuuri feels a wave of embarrassment, and Viktor sits up.

“I’m perfect, hm?” he says, helping to pull down Yuuri’s zipper.

“Slip-up,” Yuuri says. “Moment of weakness.”

Viktor kisses the side of his mouth. “I told you you were cruel. But you’re perfect too, Yuuri.”

“Cruel but perfect,” Yuuri echoes, his heart beating too fast. _What happens next, what happens next, what happens next…_

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, leaning his forehead against Yuuri’s.

“Mm?”

“ _Sit up_.”

Yuuri rises onto his knees, heart like a drum, and Viktor pulls his khakis down. There’s an inelegant moment when Yuuri has to sit back for Viktor to pull them all the way off, but then it’s done. He’s naked and aroused and on full display, and his heart is going to burst. Viktor must sense his nervousness, or else remember his inexperience, because he guides Yuuri back down, laying him on his back to hover over him.

“Is this okay?” he asks. He’s smiling slightly, but what Yuuri at first takes for calm resolves into something like nervous self-assurance. Viktor’s chest is flushed, his pupils blown wide. He wants this as much as Yuuri does.

“Come closer,” Yuuri begs, and then their bodies are touching properly, chest to chest, Viktor’s spit-slick cock against his own. Yuuri breathes hard, lost in the sensation. He could die just now and die happy, doomed never to participate in another Grand Prix. It wouldn’t matter.

He’s still in a shocked state of bliss when Viktor spits into his hand, slicks up both of them. Yuuri thinks he might come from just that, but then Viktor’s other hand finds the side of his face, and it pulls him into a kiss that has just the right edge of desperation. Yuuri kisses Viktor back—it’s a deep, hard kiss—and then Viktor starts to move in earnest. His hand retracts from between them, and it’s just their bodies moving together, teeth clacking in the kiss, breath short.

“Viktor.” It’s not a plea, exactly. He doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is the pressure building inside him, Viktor’s movements the counterpoint to his own. He tilts up into him.

“I know,” Viktor says. Somehow, Yuuri believes him.

He’s in his childhood bedroom, and he’s having sex with Viktor Nikiforov, and if he’s not careful he might turn out to be one of those people who cry during sex. He grips the back of Viktor’s neck, fists his hand in his hair. He tastes blood in his mouth—did he split his own lip or Viktor’s?—but there’s no pain, and Viktor doesn’t stop. Viktor’s muscles against him, his skin, his breath, his smell—

Yuuri gasps, grabbing at Viktor’s back. He’s on the edge, teetering.

“Beautiful,” Viktor whispers, and it’s only then Yuuri notices they’ve stopped kissing. His mind is a silent scream. “Yes, Yuuri.”

It’s all the permission Yuuri needs. In the next slide of Viktor against him he loses himself, ears ringing, and Viktor pulls him through it. The wave crashes over him, and he feels the embarrassing slickness against his stomach, but there’s no sense that he’s done it wrong. _Beautiful_ , Viktor had said, and it echoes now through the tremors of aftershock, the wind-down. He kisses Viktor again, desperate to thank him, hand running down his side to his hip, his butt, caressing feverishly.

 _Don’t let it just be me._ It was meant to be for Viktor, all for Viktor, and Viktor—

Viktor is coming too. He feels it, the new slickness between them, the shuddering of Viktor’s body. Relief pours through Yuuri. _It wasn’t just me_. _It’s not just me_. He nearly laughs with it, but he doesn’t want Viktor to think he’s laughing at him, so he hushes. His heart is racing with triumph.

He wants to go again, now, immediately. His body will lag behind his want, but that’s okay.

 _Calm down_ , he thinks, though it’s a hopeless command.

Eventually Viktor’s slow movements come to a stop, and he drops his weight onto Yuuri. His head comes down and he sighs. It’s a good sigh: satisfied, long. It ends with a kiss against Yuuri’s earlobe.

Yuuri remembers Viktor’s comments about his stamina, and keeps himself from suggesting another round. He’s fairly sure it would be insulting, so he promises himself he’ll work up to it in time—enough time for Viktor to recover.

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs.

“Viktor,” Yuuri replies. He can’t stop himself from smiling. Viktor comes up on his elbows to peer down at him.

“You don’t sound nearly tired enough,” Viktor says accusingly.

“I want to compete in the Grand Prix right now,” Yuuri admits. Is he ever going to feel this ready for the world again?

Viktor stares—then laughs. “That would be a sight.”

Yuuri looks down at himself—Viktor’s chest obscures the mess, mostly—and smiles wryly. “I suppose I’d put clothes on first.”

“You wouldn’t wash? That’s more risqué than expected.” Viktor is grinning.

Yuuri’s face floods with colour. Putting on his eros costume over the mess on his stomach would put a whole new meaning to the routine. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Of course you didn’t.” Viktor kisses him softly. “Wait right here.”

Yuuri waits, and Viktor gets up. He wipes them both off with Yuuri’s underwear and tosses it away before forcing Yuuri to get under the covers. He slides in with him, then sighs happily. His leg comes up to cover Yuuri’s.

“Are you about to have a nap?” Yuuri asks, almost fearful. He thinks he’ll die if he has to lie completely still next to a naked and replete Viktor for hours. He’d be one of those people who die of long-lasting erections.

Viktor glares. “I am _going_ ,” he says, “to bathe in the afterglow with my lover.”

Yuuri’s heart swells. “Oh. That’s good, then.”

Viktor’s brows rise. “It is?”

“I thought you were going to sleep. I’m… I want to talk.”

“Oh?”

“Not about anything.” Yuuri shifts. He smiles slightly. “Just…” He sighs, tired of his reservations, his doubt. “I’d like to know more.”

“About?”

“You.”                                                                                                             

“You won’t shush me?”

“Not your past lovers,” Yuuri begs. “I don’t think I could listen to that. Why… Why a poodle, for instance? And all the stuff that was never in interviews. I know a lot, but there has to be a lot more, and it’s not like people are honest in interviews anywhere, since publicity is important, so—”

Viktor sets a finger to his mouth. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “Whatever you want to know. Of course I will. Hm. Why a poodle, huh…?”

Yuuri settles in to listen, growing warmth inside of him, and tries not to be distracted by the sparkle in Viktor’s eyes.


	7. Moscow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the encouragement! It's more important than I can say. This is a bit of an in-betweeny chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. AND NOW... come on let's go, back to Moscow~!

The last two days in Japan before Rostelecom are bliss, pure and simple, even as Yuuri returns to rigorous practice. The way Viktor looks at him makes his insides feel like they’re setting off sparks, and what ought to be a time for nerves and insecurity is a time of joy. He doesn’t feel the old anxiety while packing, or on the drive to the airport. In fact, the first tickle of nerves doesn’t hit him until he steps onto the plane to Beijing behind Viktor. It’s only the first flight, much shorter than the second, but something about the entrance aisle of a plane screams _point of no return_. Yuuri hears Viktor greet the flight attendant standing by the entry, watches her smile brightly back after examining their tickets. She hands them back and indicates where their seats are—and Viktor nods and walks away, bag in hand.

 _Move_. Yuuri thinks to himself, feet planted. He’s blocking the entry. In a moment, people will notice. They don’t see a point of no return; they just see the inside of a plane, stuffy and cramped yet essential to their journey.

Somehow, he moves.

He catches up with Viktor before Viktor has looked behind him and seen Yuuri fell behind, and the fact that Viktor didn’t anticipate or notice Yuuri’s show of nerves steadies Yuuri. Why should he be scared? He’s practiced endlessly, he’s better than he’s ever been, and he has Viktor. Rostelecom won’t be the end of the line; he won’t let it be. When they’ve reached cruising altitude and Viktor tells him they need to celebrate the start of their journey, he doesn’t argue, letting Viktor order wine for both of them.

“In business class we could have had champagne,” Viktor says, just a little sadly.

Yuuri glances at him, halfway amused. “Sorry for not being a Russian skating legend.”

Viktor puts an arm around him, leans close to brush a kiss against the side of his mouth. “You’re a Japanese skating legend. One that’ll only get bigger.”

The flutters in Yuuri’s stomach dull the regret of knowing that’s not true. He knows it’s right to retire, but when Viktor talks like that he can almost tell himself the Grand Prix isn’t the end. He’ll enjoy the moment while he can, not allowing the future overshadow it.

“Mm,” he says noncommittally, too aware of Viktor surrounding him, and gulps down his wine. The alcohol steadies his nerves enough to nap, and the rest of the journey passes in a Viktor-filled haze. He wishes he could live his life with Viktor always draped over him, as uncomfortable as it would be. He wants to keep him close. When Viktor sleeps on his shoulder during the second flight, dead to the world, Yuuri presses a kiss to his crown. _He’s mine for now_ , he thinks. He has plenty of bright memories to look back on in the years to come; it’ll be enough.

By the time they get to Shremetyevo airport, his only thought is to find a shower and a toothbrush, not necessarily in that order. He follows Viktor in a daze, confused by all the rapid-fire Russian he hears in voices that don’t belong to Viktor. He tries to get the wifi working on his phone as he trails the one Russian he knows, and they’ve been standing at a desk for five minutes when it finally registers that they’re in the car hire area instead of the taxi bay.

“Viktor?” he asks, confused. The man behind the desk glances at him, and Viktor smiles.

“Mm?”

“You’re hiring a car?”

“Don’t worry. They’re about to bring it out.”

Yuuri isn’t worried; he’s surprised. Viktor didn’t drive at all in Japan, and Yuuri thought he didn’t have a license. Him being able to drive never came up, somehow. After another moment they walk into the garage proper, and an attendant drives a car up. It’s black and sleek, but on the whole more reasonable than Viktor’s usual tastes. When Yuuri says so, Viktor shrugs.

“It’s winter,” he says, which doesn’t make sense until they’re out on slushy roads, Yuuri’s heart in his stomach. All the cars bear the markings of hard wear, and Viktor’s driving is… fast.

“Viktor?” Yuuri says, voice high pitched.

“Yes, Yuuri?” Viktor downshifts to zoom past a dented white car, his knuckles standing out. It might have been sexy if the speed wasn’t so terrifying; there’s too much traffic for this kind of driving. “Ah, a detour! Let’s go this way! You can see the river…”

He steers sharply to catch an exit, and Yuuri holds onto the car door. Viktor laughs when he sees his white-knuckled hold on the handle.

“Daijoubu, daijoubu,” he says gleefully. “I’ve got this.”

“You haven’t driven in months! We just flew for over half a day, you must be tired—”

“Yuuri! Look out the window!”

Yuuri looks, seeing a landscape of snow-covered buildings. It’s awe-inspiring, though Yuuri worries it might be the last thing he sees as the car jerks again—to overtake. Someone honks, and Viktor laughs.

“What do you think _daijoubu_ means?” Yuuri mutters, hands sore from maintaining his death grip.

“I want to take you around,” Viktor says, ignoring the question. “The weather… ah, well. It’s authentic, isn’t it?”

“I just want to catch up on sleep then practice.”

Viktor glances at him. “You don’t want to see?”

The change in Viktor’s voice forces Yuuri to consider what he just said. This is his first time in Russia with Viktor, and he’s saying he doesn’t want to look around. Even if Rostelecom looms in his mind, he can’t shut the world out like he used to when it was just him.

Well—he can, but he shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” he says, deflating. “I’m so tired from the flight. I’d love to see Moscow. After we sleep.”

Viktor’s smile is the tender one Yuuri is only slowly getting used to. “Is there anywhere you’ve heard of, that you’d like to go?”

There is, but it’s embarrassing to say. The only reason Yuuri knows about it is because of a series of photographs Viktor featured in as a teenager. But, well…

“The rink in the Red Square,” Yuuri admits.

“We’ll go there once you’ve rested. It’s even more beautiful in the dark, so you won’t miss anything.”

Yuuri nods, relieved, and calms further when they’re caught in traffic. Viktor jiggles his foot almost nervously, still keyed up.

“What is it?” Yuuri asks.

“Mm?”

“You’re acting strange.”

“Ah! It’s… nothing.”

Yuuri waits, the crawl of traffic guaranteed to make Viktor talk eventually.

“It’s being here,” Viktor says. “When I imagined it, I imagined whisking you away to all the best places. So you’d like it.”

“Moscow?”

“Russia.”

Yuuri presses a hand against his chest, against the tight sensation there. It’s almost painful, this growing intimacy.

“But of course skaters have no time,” Viktor says. The car jerks to close on the car in front, then stops again. “At least I can show you around tonight, before you’re allowed on the ice.”

 

* * *

 

A sleep and a shower revive Yuuri so he feels almost human by the time they head for the Red Square. Though Viktor rented a car, they take the metro, and Yuuri goggles at all the people bundled up in their coats, most of them speaking Russian. It’s totally overwhelming, and when Viktor pulls him close he doesn’t resist. Was this what it was like for Viktor in Japan?

“Come on,” Viktor says as they step onto the platform nearest the Red Square. He takes Yuuri’s hand, walking fast towards the exit. Yuuri lets himself be dragged along, out of the station and into the cold, open air. When he sees St. Basil’s Cathedral lit up he can’t stop gaping. It’s so grand—yet the colours and shapes are so whimsical it seems like a fairytale dwelling, a child’s idea of a palace.

Viktor’s fingers brushing back his hair draw him back to the present—to Viktor looking intently down at him. “What do you think?”

That avid gaze makes Yuuri’s insides feel like mush, but he pretends to be unaffected. “Hm,” he says. “I don’t know. Are there ninjas inside?”

Viktor throws back his head and laughs—then bends down to kiss Yuuri, fingers sliding along his jaw. It’s not a cursory kiss; it’s deep, lingering, totally inappropriate to be doing in public—but the cold and the dark anonymise them, and Yuuri’s not sure the rest of the world even exists when Viktor’s in this mood. He lets himself be taken around, always with Viktor holding onto him somehow: around the square, the rink, the mall. Viktor refuses to let him pay for anything save a souvenir he buys Mari, and each exchange with strangers is held in Russian, leaving Yuuri to read Viktor’s face for clues.

 _Is this what it was like?_ Yuuri wonders again. He feels like a child clinging to the one person he knows and understands, and wonders how Viktor managed all those months in Japan with only Yuuri and a handful of others to talk to. Had he felt isolated, lonely? Yuuri can’t help wishing he’d done a better job of befriending Viktor early on, even though Viktor’s arrival had been so unexpected.

The thought launches an introspective mood, but Yuuri doesn’t get much time to indulge in it. It’s clear Viktor enjoys playing the tour guide, and his energy pulls Yuuri along. He takes Yuuri to a favourite restaurant, telling him he knows even more great places in St. Petersburg; he seems to be planning that future trip in his mind already. Yuuri feels a mixture of joy and sadness, wondering if he’ll ever see St. Petersburg with Viktor.

“I’d love to go,” Yuuri says. It’s the truth, and it hurts just a little.

Viktor stops in the middle of a monologue. “You will,” he says, as if the thought of Yuuri not going is incomprehensible. He leans on his hand, inclines his head with a smile. “Of course you will.”

Yuuri is saved from answering by the arrival of their meal—all ordered by Viktor—and the rest of the dinner passes in simple enjoyment of good food and good company. Yuuri’s pleasure is anything but feigned, and he’s almost regretful the date’s over when they get back to the hotel. Most of the skaters will be arriving tomorrow, when they’ll be allowed on the official ice, and Yuuri has enjoyed the relative anonymity of this day before the competitive practice time starts. There are no reporters, and the hotel staff are friendly but distant.

“What did you think?” Viktor asks in the lift. His hair is windblown, his scarf pulled from his neck in the hotel’s warmth.

He’s waiting for a positive response, but Yuuri can’t help asking: “Were you lonely in Japan?”

“Uh?” Viktor asks. He smiles quizzically.  

“I thought of it before, but it’s not really the same as Detroit. Wasn’t it hard to bear, not understanding anything?”

Viktor doesn’t move, but something in his gaze seems to level out somehow; it makes him seem distant. “Tonight was hard to bear?”

“No! No, not at all. It was amazing, but…” Yuuri swallows. Does he sound ungrateful. “Without you there, I would have been lost. When I travelled before, it was always hotels and rinks unless my coach took me somewhere. But I was never anywhere for so long. Not like you in Hasetsu.”

They reach their floor, and Yuuri steps out next to Viktor reluctantly, feeling like he’s said the wrong thing. A glance at Viktor weighs him down further; Viktor’s expression has closed up. They enter their room in silence, Yuuri’s heart beating fast. The night had glowed with light and laughter until he put his foot in it. He wants the breathless and flushed Viktor who kissed him in the Red Square back again.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and Yuuri freezes in the middle of the room. Viktor stands in the entry. He’s taken off his coat, and Yuuri swallows down the desire that ripples through him at the sight of Viktor’s arms, his chest, his shape tantalising now without the obscuring lines of the coat. Familiarity with Viktor’s body hasn’t dulled his lust at all; if anything it’s awoken it. Perhaps Viktor reads the change in Yuuri’s posture, because he approaches. Yuuri reaches out, grabbing the front of Viktor’s shirt with childish need, and Viktor smiles.

“I don’t regret anything,” Viktor says. The distance between them is fading again. He brushes Yuuri’s cheek with his hand. “Can you believe that?”

“I was just curious,” Yuuri defends. “It’s so strange, having just one person be the window to your whole world. Maybe…” He stops. A week ago he might not have brought this up at all, and now he’s afraid to finish his thought. That ought to teach him for thinking out loud.

“What?” Viktor asks softly.

Yuuri looks away from that attentive blue gaze, studying the carpet. _Maybe that’s why you started to like me._ It’s too self-deprecating.

“I demand you tell me,” Viktor says.

Somehow, his tactic works—well enough to get Yuuri to talk a little, at least. “If we’d spent so much time together somewhere else, do you think we would have… you know?”

Viktor’s smile is odd, and he doesn’t dignify Yuuri’s question with an answer. Instead he brushes Yuuri’s hair aside, kisses him above his eyebrow.

“Stupid,” Yuuri hears him mutter.

 

* * *

 

The next day figure skaters spill into the hotel and surrounding area, suddenly _there_ in the lifts and hallways and the competition’s rink. Yuuri can’t help the jolt of panic-joy when a familiar, leopard-printed shoe keeps the doors of his lift from closing. Yurio has sought him out in his typical, aggressive way, and it makes Yuuri smile.

“Good luck to us,” he says, and Yurio’s assurance that he’ll be crushed here in Moscow is almost comforting. It’s the kind of push he enjoys, and it’s all he expects from Yurio; he thrives on it.

The lift goes up, and up. It dings, and they step out onto the same floor, the corridor smelling of coffee being brewed in one of the nearby rooms. Yuuri ought to mind his own business, let Yurio be, but when Yurio tries to go the other way, he stops him.

“Come to dinner with us later?”

“Us?” Yurio says, though he must know who an _us_ from Yuuri includes.

Yuuri raises his brows silently, waiting.

“Why would I?”

“You have to eat. Don’t you see Yakov and Lilia often enough? Or do your grandparents live close enough to eat with them?”

Yurio scowls. Perhaps Yuuri shouldn’t have let on that he knows Yurio has no one but his coaches and family to spend time with—but it’s the truth, and sometimes Yurio doesn’t know how to approach people on his own. He’s awkward, difficult. It’s something Yuuri can relate to, though his own awkwardness never manifested in aggression.

“I suppose I can eat,” Yurio says, relenting, and Yuuri smiles.

“See you later, then. You have our numbers still?”

Yurio looks at him for a moment—not in that sliding, angry way but really looking. It’s only mildly disconcerting, and Yuuri manages to look back without shifting his weight from foot to foot. He inclines his head, and Yurio puffs out an annoyed breath.

“See you later,” Yurio says, and turns away with a dancer’s grace, his hands sliding into his pockets. Yuuri supposes that’s a _yes, I have your numbers, I’ll contact you later_. Probably.

 

* * *

  

Yuuri isn’t sure what Viktor does when he’s not with him at the rink, but he doesn’t question it. He likes to see Viktor sweep into a room, wind-blown, sometimes sharing what he’s seen and done, sometimes not—though this time Yuuri is the only one with news. Viktor grins when he tells him he invited Yurio to dinner.

“And he said yes?” Viktor asks, doffing his coat.

“He said _why would I_ ,” Yuuri corrects, laughing, and Viktor laughs too. He finishes hanging up his coat and approaches to set a finger to Yuuri’s fringe in an easy caress.

“You know, I never expected you two to get along as well as you do. But you like him, don’t you?”

“He’s fun. He reminds me… well, I wasn’t like him as a teenager, but he reminds me what it felt like. You can’t feel unmotivated with him around.”

“You as a teenager…” Viktor muses, obviously picturing it. Yuuri wishes he wouldn’t; he cringes to remember himself at that age. Meanwhile, Viktor had been an international success already, always poised in front of cameras.

“It’s nice of you to join me,” Yuuri says, trying to halt Viktor’s thoughts, “but it’s time for me to head to the rink again. My next slot. Will you come too? We can go out after.”

Viktor sighs, hard done to. “But I wanted to laze about the hotel with you. Room service, champagne, feeding each other strawberries…”

Yuuri imagines it, except in his fantasy Viktor isn’t feeding him the strawberries; instead, they’re lined up on his bare stomach and Yuuri is—

Yuuri cuts off the fantasy, but not before Viktor sees his expression and asks, “What? What did you just think of?” with his eyes sparkling. Yuuri shakes his head, refusing to satisfy his curiosity.

“Another time. Let’s go?”

Viktor sighs his assent, though his glance promises he’ll find out later.

 

* * *

  

“I’ll show you,” Yurio is promising over borscht. “You’ll regret giving me the programme.”

His significant glance at Yuuri is another challenge, just like in the lift, but his animosity seems to be directed at Viktor just now.

“I look forward to it,” Viktor says blithely. “Though I know I won’t regret a thing.”

The tension in Yurio’s brow suggests he has no use for Viktor’s easygoing reply, but then, what did he expect? For Viktor to shake in his boots? The two of them always collide in their way, Yurio a crashing wave against the rock of Viktor’s personality, his reputation, his talent. Yuuri tries to move on to more neutral territory.

“How was it to work with Lilia? Viktor says she’s scary.”

Yurio exhales sharply through his nose, looking between them. It’s not the first time he’s done it tonight; Yuuri is starting to feel like a zoo exhibit, and he wonders what Yurio sees. Does he see the change between them? If he does, it seems to provoke disgust more than any other emotion.

That’s okay. Yuuri doesn’t need Yurio’s approval; it’s clear Yurio considers tender feelings a weakness, to be hidden away and denied. Might be a teenager thing—but might be a Yurio thing, too. Yuuri wonders what kind of adult he’ll grow into, all the myriad ways he’ll change.

“She doesn’t scare me,” Yurio says eventually. “I’m not scared of hard work. Or commitment.”

Both of these are pointed statements aimed at Viktor—for retiring?—but again Viktor smiles them away, and somehow, after an awkward pause, Yuuri manages to get them to talk amicably about Moscow again, and the absent Mila. _She_ has other friends among the skaters, though from what Yuuri has gathered she’s as colourful as her rinkmates. Yurio begins to relax, and the dinner ends pleasantly, with Viktor and Yurio lapsing into Russian now and then when English falls short. Yurio even scolds Viktor for not teaching Yuuri more Russian, as if he expects Yuuri to be around long enough to need it. His concern feels almost like affection.

 “At least teach him enough to get by on his own,” Yurio concludes at the end of the scolding, and Yuuri is warm even in the cutting wind on the way back to the hotel.

No other skaters intrude on their party of three in the lobby; perhaps they’re out, or getting an early night. They ride the lift in silence.

“Bye,” Yurio says in the hotel hallway, painfully abrupt, and charges the other way. Viktor and Yuuri watch him go. There’s a subtle loosening of tension, and again Yuuri wonders what was going through Yurio’s mind through dinner.

“I can’t wait to see his performance tomorrow,” Viktor says.

“Mm,” Yuuri agrees, though the thought of Yurio’s Agape fills him with an equal measure of anxiety; it reminds him of his own performance and all the people he has to outcompete. Still, he’s in good form. Better than he’s ever been.

He has to keep reminding himself.

They head back to their room, and excitement replaces worry as the door closes behind them. Viktor has given up on his rules, more used to Yuuri’s stamina now, and he only sighs with enjoyment when Yuuri backs him into a wall, hands sliding under his shirt. Yuuri loves the way Viktor melts against him like this, pliable as soft clay, always willing and ready—at least the first time. He needs more breaks than Yuuri does.

Clothes come off, littering their path to the bed. Viktor gives himself over, letting Yuuri take control. It’s easy to find a rhythm together, moving again like the first time, though now Yuuri knows enough to keep Viktor pinned below him, proving again that a day of skating doesn’t tire him out enough to satisfy this endless want. Viktor trembles as they slide together, slick and perfect, and Yuuri loses himself in his scent, his held breaths. Still, caught up as he is, he notices when Viktor comes; he feels the scrape of nails, how he clings tighter. That response always seems to put Yuuri over the edge too. He’s not sure he’ll ever be immune to Viktor holding on like he’ll break if he lets go.

The sleep that follows is deep and restful, the waking after sweet. Viktor likes to sleep naked, and Yuuri likes to wake up to Viktor naked in the bed; hypocritical, since he himself insists on wearing pajamas. Viktor has complained about it more than once.

Light spills in around the curtains, but Yuuri stays where he is. Soon they’ll be caught up in the circus of competition, but for now Viktor’s eyes are closed, his body bed-warm and partially exposed, his soft breaths balm to an ache inside of Yuuri. Yuuri wonders if people ever recover from this kind of love, but it’s an academic question. He doesn’t care whether he recovers.

Blue eyes blink open. It takes a moment for them to focus, but when they do Viktor smiles. “Ohayou.”

“You look beautiful,” Yuuri says. His filter has been broken by sleep, and Viktor flushes with pleasure. So strange for a man as universally desired as he is to be weak to compliments.

Viktor stretches out, then rolls onto his stomach, keeping his eyes on Yuuri. “Did you sleep well?”

“For once, yes.”

“My calming influence,” Viktor says. He closes his eyes again, head pillowed on his arms. Yuuri touches his shoulder, trails his finger over bare skin. Viktor’s hum of enjoyment encourages him; he rolls to lie on top of Viktor’s back, kisses the back of his neck. The scent of Viktor’s cologne has got to be an aphrodisiac—or else it’s simply the memory of it lingering on Viktor’s clothes, on the periphery of Yuuri’s mind for all those long months after Viktor stampeded into his life, tantalising and untouchable. Now Viktor lies under him, the swell of his butt against Yuuri’s crotch, and a lungful of Viktor-scented air makes Yuuri press into his naked warmth.

Viktor’s sigh turns wistful. “We can, you know.”

Yuuri’s mind stutters to a halt. Does he mean…? It’s possible, but the thought makes Yuuri so embarrassed he’s not ready to ask. He likes what they’ve done up to now, the way their bodies move together, but what he thinks Viktor is suggesting would be messy, would need preparation, would be… well, new. What if he’s terrible at it?

“We need to head out soon,” Yuuri says. He hopes he doesn’t sound nervous.

Viktor groans. “You’re a tease.”

Yuuri thinks of Viktor sleeping naked, his lazy stretching, his heavy-lidded gaze. Which one of them is a tease? Not the person in pajamas with a bad case of bedhead, he thinks. He runs his hand over Viktor’s side just once, committing the feel of his skin to memory—a charm to hold with him during the competition—then rolls off.

“Come on,” he says, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He cleans the lenses of his glasses on his shirt before putting them on. “I have a competition to win.”

He watches Viktor’s pout change into a grin in response to his confidence. “You do,” he agrees.

Yuuri tries not to feel like he’s already won the prize.


	8. Quiet Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rostelecom! At long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who encourage me to keep going with this fic. Your support is what got me to pull myself (temporarily) out of a raging Dragon Age obsession to hammer out the update today. This update comes to you in two parts! A Viktor chapter followed by a Yuuri chapter. For an authentic Yuuri chapter experience, please put "Partizan Hope" on repeat as you read.
> 
> (I too cannot believe I wrote to a JJ song, BUT it is a very poignant JJ song..!)
> 
> Warnings for musings about pet death, as this is the dreaded "Makkachin ate some steamed buns" chapter. Obviously he still makes it out fine! (Only Satan would create a "Makkachin dies" canon divergence in a mostly canon-compliant fic...)

Viktor is beginning to suspect Yuuri might be at his best in a pit of hungry cobras. At least, his response to Rostelecom so far suggests that might be the case.

He’s imagined Yuuri at Rostelecom before, of course, up against Yuri’s budding popularity and Viktor’s own legend. He’d imagined a Yuuri with bitten nails and a grimace of determination, the weight of Viktor’s coaching pulling him down instead of up. What he gets in reality is a Yuuri who walks around the stadium with steely resolve, the whispering crowds bracing him up instead of tearing him down. It makes Viktor wish he could get him alone, see that glint of ego up close. This is the Yuuri he fantasised about when he flew to Japan the first time.

It’s a nice reminder.

Yuuri’s confidence has an odd effect on him. He wants to yell _he’s mine_ from the top of the stands, but of course, everyone already knows skater Katsuki Yuuri had something to draw Viktor away from professional skating. Plenty of people will believe it’s purely sexual, no thanks to the programme Viktor choreographed, but it’s more than that. It’s being alive. It’s seeing someone from a hundred different angles, angles that help Viktor understand himself. At Yuuri’s side during Rostelecom, he misses nothing about his old life; his new one is too exciting.

Then again, people cheer wherever he turns to look at them. Perhaps his old life is still right here, a thing he can’t miss because it hasn’t truly ended.

Yuuri meets him at the barrier before his performance, tall on his skates, his hair slicked back. There’s still that delicious shiver of seeing Yuuri skate in a costume that used to be his, the awareness of fabric stretched over skin. Viktor wonders if he’ll be able to seduce Yuuri into keeping it on for him one day.

So much to do—but the rest of that expression, _so little time_ , is becoming less and less true. A future is beginning to take shape.

“You know your programme,” Viktor says, and Yuuri smiles. It feels as if Rostelecom has crept up on them unawares, despite the weeks of preparation. Being here is surreal, but sometimes that’s the best feeling before skating. Yuuri’s body will remember the programme for him.

Viktor’s body is tensed to spring, as if he’s about to skate too; he has to remind himself to relax.

“Viktor!”

He turns slightly. There’s a crowd of fans on the bleachers, yelling his name and giggling. They’re here for the skating, but the way they cry harder when he looks at them indicates they might be personal fans too. He waves, seeing one of them nearly fall from the structure when he does; she has to be pulled back by a friend.

There’s a tug at his neck, Yuuri’s hand on his tie, pulling his attention firmly back to where it was. Want fizzles through him at the possessive gesture, bursts into flame at Yuuri’s low voice.

“Remember, the performance has already begun.”

He hears Yuuri say he’ll show his love to all of Russia, and he searches Yuuri’s gaze for… something. He’s been finding himself looking at Yuuri that way often lately, almost needy, searching for something he can’t name. All he sees in the flicker of eye contact is a possessive desire that rivals his own, not that something else he seeks, but it’s enough.

His heart hammers as he watches Yuuri skate away. His breath holds itself, quite separate from him.

_Do your best, Yuuri._

 

* * *

 

 

Success doesn’t taste the same when it’s not just his. He’s used to the spotlight, to the burn in his muscles, but any burning inside of him has nothing to do with honest effort. He walks at Yuuri’s side feeling smug, which must show on his face because he can feel Yakov glaring at him around corners. All he wants now is to see tomorrow’s performance, all Yuuri’s sensuality from Eros changed and moulded, subdued into a tenderness that makes viewers’ hearts ache. That’s when he’ll reach peak smugness. Yakov might kill him, but it’ll be worth it.

“Ah,” Yuuri says. They’re near the TVs, JJ’s performance broadcasting. “Mari’s calling. I’ll be right back.”

Viktor nods, letting go of Yuuri’s shoulder for the first time in a while; he hadn’t noticed he was holding onto Yuuri until he made to leave. Is he clingy? He might be clingy. The space at his side loses heat as he watches JJ’s short programme with a critical eye, cataloguing movements, similarities to other skaters. A glance at Yuuri’s back shows only high shoulders, his posture sheltering the phone from the noise.

A tiny coil of dread unfurls in Viktor’s stomach. Habit, maybe; he doesn’t like it when Yuuri adopts that posture, cut off from the people in the room. He turns back to JJ, but the programme is finishing. There’s nothing there to help Yuuri, anyway; JJ has a different appeal.

Or rather, Yuuri has appeal. Viktor wonders if he’s biased. He looks at Yuuri again, and now Yuuri is turning to face him, phone still clutched in his hand.

“Viktor—you have to go back to Japan. I’ll face the free skate alone.”

It’s the last thing Viktor expected to hear. “Uh? Yuuri—”

“Makkachin ate some buns, and he’s—he’s at the vet, and they don’t know if he’ll make it, and you have to go—”

Viktor’s ears ring. A sudden, intense headache has started up, and it convinces him he hasn’t heard right. “I can’t, Yuuri.”

“He might die!”

That seems impossible—seems unreal. Viktor is here, in Russia, and when he left Japan Makkachin was perfectly healthy. Safe. Viktor needs to be in Russia right now. He can’t go back to Japan, ergo, Makkachin is not in danger. He’ll be fine.

“You need me here.”

“Viktor!”

For a moment, Viktor allows himself to consider the loss. He believes he processes it. Makkachin might die, whether he goes back to Japan or not. It’s pain, and it’s unexpected—the timing is unexpected—but he swallows it in one bitter moment.

“I—”

Looking at Yuuri’s intense expression is a mistake. It’s Yuuri’s concern, not his own, that breaks the sense of unreality allowing him to keep his distance. _Makkachin_. The dog that’s been with him through everything, flown across the world with him. Makkachin knows Viktor loves him, even if he’s not there right now—but the thought of him dying alone, so far from home, hurts like hell. Yuuri’s family will be there, he supposes; they dote on him.

 _I’m sorry, Makkachin_.

“I can’t go back while you need me,” Viktor says. “We’ll go back after the free skate tomorrow, right after.”

“He might not have that long! That’s not—you have to go back!”

“I told you, I can’t—”

He sees a group approaching, Yakov at its centre. Pain and frustration narrow his thoughts to one purpose. Yuuri needs a coach for tomorrow. Viktor is his coach, which is why he can’t leave.

If Yakov helped…

He makes his case, pleading, and relief fills him when Yakov accepts. He’ll have to tell him more about Yuuri later, on the phone, but now it’s time to book flights. Yuuri is staring at him like he’s grown an extra limb.

“I—Yakov? I just thought…”

“I can’t let you do this alone,” Viktor says, and Yuuri seems to accept it. Looking at Yuuri’s face is painful—the tension there, like the worst has already happened. He’s resolute, though; Viktor knows he won’t let him stay.

He’s… grateful. He would have stayed, would have considered it the only option. But Yuuri is pushing him away with both hands.

Viktor calls an agent he had in the past, the number still in his phone, and leaves the professional to arrange his flights while he moves through the complex towards the exit. Yuuri comes with him, the tension between them palpable. Viktor isn’t sure if he wants Yuuri here—maybe he wants to be alone, if all Yuuri can do is look worried—but he doesn’t feel strongly one way or the other. His stomach is a pit of snakes.

Steamed buns. Had Makkachin been alone so much? So bored? He’s well-behaved, most ways, but food left unattended… He feels himself start to cast blame and reels in his mind, not wanting to complicate things. Bad things happen, and you have to deal with them. The _why_ and _how_ help no one; he isn’t a philosopher.

He’s a skating coach, leaving his skater the day before the competition completes. What is he doing?

“Viktor?” Yuuri says timidly. “The parking structure?”                

Right—that’s where the car is. He’d been heading to the front, where they can get a cab.

“Wait—maybe you shouldn’t drive like this.”

“I’m fine,” Viktor says, though he has a headache, he’s tired. He hates the way the glow from earlier has dissipated. He hates imagining himself from half an hour ago, looking forward to Yuuri’s performance tomorrow. That future is gone—that excitement is gone.

_You’re being melodramatic._

Everything is fine. Everything will be fine. He’ll go to Japan, he’ll see Makkachin through whatever surgery he needs, and they’ll be there to greet Yuuri at the airport when he returns. Yuuri will do fine in his free skate; hadn’t Viktor thought today that Yuuri did well when odds were against him?

He doesn’t examine that thought too closely, suspecting it’s a half-truth, not relevant to the current situation. They drive to the hotel in silence, and Viktor starts to thaw. He’s processing this, and all the decisions are made. His phone buzzes in his pocket: messages from his agent, probably, telling him what flight he’s on. All he has to do is pack up his things and head for the airport.

“Thank you,” he says as they enter their room. It looks different from this morning, somehow. “For telling me to go.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says. His voice is quiet, and he heads into the bathroom, flicking on the light. “I’ll pick up all your things here if you pack what’s in there.”

For a moment Viktor is caught, looking at Yuuri in crisis mode. Not Yuuri’s own crisis, for once. Yuuri is quiet, determined. He’s still wearing his Eros outfit under his hoodie, the skirt peeking out, but the tantalising feeling from earlier is all gone—and Viktor’s heart throbs with a mixture of love and guilt and longing.

He’s failing Yuuri, that quiet boy in the bathroom. He’d promised to take him to the Grand Prix, help him win gold. Victory is not assured at this point; far from it.

Yuuri glances up. “Viktor?”

He was caught staring. Viktor shakes his head. “Sorry—I’ll pack.”

They finish the job in mutual silence, and soon Viktor’s bag is ready. Reluctance fills him. He doesn’t want to go—doesn’t want to be alone. His new flight leaves in three hours, though, and traffic could well be a problem on the way. He stands with Yuuri, looking down at him. That swell of feeling returns. Somehow, Yuuri’s silent understanding renders him softer, and it pulls at a need in Viktor. He swallows.

“Makkachin will be fine,” he says. “And you’ll show all of Russia your love tomorrow. Again.”

Yuuri blinks up at him. “I’m going with you to the airport.”

Viktor wants to accept, but he doesn’t want to feel like his heart is being squished for any longer than he has to. “No. You’re staying here, having a hot shower, and preparing for tomorrow. You need to focus on yourself.”

“But—”

“I’m your coach,” Viktor says. He hopes his eyes convey the rest: _let me do this much_.

Yuuri reaches up, his hands falling on either side of Viktor’s neck. He presses a chaste kiss against his mouth.

“I’ll show them,” he says. It’s not quite convincing, but Viktor appreciates the effort.

“I know.”

 


	9. Absence, Fonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, please listen to dramatic, swelling JJ music. Preferably Partizan Hope and not Theme of King JJ but I'm not the boss of you..!
> 
> NOTE: I posted two chapters in one go, if you're reading this on March 12th please make sure you've read chapter 8 first.

_Bereft_. That’s the word. It’s not loneliness—it’s the sensation of being robbed of something, forced to stand on his own two feet when he’s forgotten how. Yuuri’s attempts to convince himself he’s fine only seem to drive the feeling deeper under his skin. How is he meant to manage without Viktor?

_You managed without him before._

Eventually panic recedes, and he can function like a person again. He showers, visualises the next day, takes stock of what he needs to do. Viktor’s ‘about to take off’ text removes him from the map for hours. Yuuri is alone, well and truly. He knows he should go out, maybe find Yurio, but he gets room service and eats it on the bed he shared with Viktor instead, wondering how things could change so fast.

Makkachin…

It’s a relief when it’s time for bed, and then when it’s time to get up and head for the stadium, and then when he’s standing on the ice. It’s a relief, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s come to rely on Viktor.

He draws on different reserves. He skated before Viktor. Bad as he feels, this is just another competition, and his body knows how to compete. When the music starts, his confidence stutters to life.

 _Just skate_.

It’s easier said than done, but he manages. It’s not his best. His ears ring, and the glare from the ice blinds him. That’s better, in the end, his dulled senses isolating him so he can finish the programme without thinking too much about the people outside. He’s grateful for Viktor, even now, even when he’s not here. He’s grateful Viktor didn’t think he was weak, that he sees Yuuri as worthwhile.

Yuuri wants to be worthwhile—worth Viktor’s effort.

In the kiss and cry, an unexpected torrent of criticism from Yakov cracks Yuuri’s sense of isolation if not his daze. He’s not alone, after all, even if the people here are strange and unfamiliar. All of them are here for skating. This fills him with gratefulness too, and he thinks he catches Yakov by surprise when he hugs him, weak with relief that he’s through to the next round.

Yakov’s surprise is fine. He catches others by surprise too. The Czech skater’s hug back is firm, almost comforting, but it’s not quite what Yuuri is looking for, and he continues on. If he could just hug Yurio, everything would be fine. Yurio and Viktor have a connection, something tying them together, and even if it’s not like being with Viktor Yurio could yell something disparaging in Russian and that would be comforting too—but Yurio runs away, and eventually Yuuri realises he’s running after an unwilling teenager, trying to hug them.

Oh. Well.

He’s through to the Grand Prix—by the skin of his teeth, but through nonetheless. The journey doesn’t end here, and it’s only now with crisis averted that he realises how much he feared not making it. He sets out alone, bundled against the snow, and wonders what he would have done if Mickey’s score had been just a little higher. Isolate himself? Cry all the way back to Japan then say goodbye to Viktor? It doesn’t bear thinking of, but that’s never stopped him before.

He has so little time left. Less than two weeks, and then it’ll be another competition. His last. It’s right to stop. Keeping going makes him nervous, tortures him, but at the same time he doesn’t want it to be over. Because of Viktor? Or because of himself?

He’s not prepared for a short Russian imp to appear out of nowhere to scold him—brusquely—but it’s just what he needed. Yurio kicks him down, angry as ever, yelling something about self-pity, and leaves him lying in the snow. His insides shiver with laughter at Yurio’s pride, his resentment of JJ, his assumptions about Yuuri’s own psyche. The taste of katsudon warms him through even here in unfamiliar Moscow—or maybe the feeling of satisfaction comes from the fact that Yurio sought him out. It makes him smile to remember the last Grand Prix, Yurio’s anger then. Yuuri can’t have a pity party without Yurio coming to harangue him, it seems.

It’s nice.

When they part at the hotel, Yuuri feels lighter. He wants to make the best of his time left with Viktor, wants to draw as close as he can even if it’ll hurt more later. He wants all of Viktor: his low voice, his embraces, even his frustration when Yuuri doesn’t do as he’s told. He wants their first night in Moscow to do over again, without that question that had scrubbed the smile from Viktor’s face at the end.

_Tonight was hard to bear?_

Impatience fills him, but he doesn’t have the money to burn to go back to Japan on an earlier flight; he has to wait until tomorrow, and the waiting pulls at him. He packs everything but the essentials, listens to music. Mercifully, eventually, Viktor calls.

“He’s doing fine,” is the first thing Viktor says. Earlier texts had suggested Makkachin was pulling through, but Yuuri lets out a breath of relief anyway.

“I’m happy, Viktor.”

“Me too. I…”

Silence falls; Yuuri takes a long breath. “I got through,” he says. He’d texted as much earlier.

“Yes.”

“I… didn’t do well.” He feels ashamed. Worse than ashamed, he feels he let Viktor down. He made it through, but he could have done so much more than just squeak by. He hates that—the thought that his last entry to the Grand Prix had been more deserved than this one. Scoring conventions saved him, not skill.

For his part, Viktor doesn’t comfort him with a contradiction—but he doesn’t lecture him either, even though he saw the performance via a friend’s stream. Perhaps he knows Yakov well enough to know Yuuri’s already had his lecture. “You got through,” is all he says.

“Yes.”

They sit in intimate silence, clutching phones. Yuuri wonders if Viktor is okay like this, not speaking, or if he wishes Yuuri had something to say. Yuuri does have things to say—but he wants to say them to Viktor’s face, with Viktor’s hands on him. Viktor’s arms around him.

“We’ll see each other tomorrow,” he says, phone gripped tight.

“Twenty-seven hours.”

 _So many_ , Yuuri thinks, desolated. He hopes he can sleep through most of them. He lays down, wondering how silence on a phone can steady him. Is it enough that he has Viktor’s attention?

“I… miss you,” he says. He wonders if it’s fair to say that, when he told Viktor to leave.

Viktor’s exhalation is audible. “Me too.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. Makkachin is drugged up, resting.”

“On the bed?”

“Me or Makkachin? Both. We both are.”

Yuuri imagines it: Viktor on his side, watching Makkachin sleep. His hair would be flopped over, all to one side. Maybe his shirt has ridden up, soft fabric falling short of his hip. Yuuri feels a possessive urge to be there, right now, to slot his body behind Viktor’s and hold him close, bury his face in Viktor’s neck. _Mine_ , something in him insists. _They’re mine._

“And you?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri looks around. “In the hotel. On the bed. I’m packed. I wish I could just summon a private jet right now.”

“Don’t give me ideas.”

Yuuri laughs. “How rich are you?”

“Penniless,” Viktor says. “My current client has been paying me with his body, so I have no cash. I don’t have any complaints, though.”

A shiver goes through Yuuri. Sometimes it still seems odd that Viktor could desire him—could joke that their intimacy is _payment_ instead of a favour he’s doing Yuuri. Yuuri curls up, his throat tight with longing, his skin itchy with it.

“It’s late where you are,” he says.

“I’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

“You aren’t tired?”

“I am.”

Another long silence, and eventually Yuuri sighs. “You should sleep.”

Viktor makes a noise of disappointment, though it’s so sleepy and drawn out it’s not convincing. “No phone sex?”

“Makkachin needs his rest.”

 A pause as Viktor thinks, then: “You mean we could do it some other time?”

This has Yuuri sitting up, embarrassed. Does he mean that? He’s not sure. “I—I don’t know! Maybe.”

Viktor’s laugh is slow, sleepy. It makes Yuuri lie back down, weak with his own infatuation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Yuuri says again. “Give Makkachin a hundred kisses for me.”

“Only a hundred? He’ll be hurt.”

“Hugs too.”

“I will.” There’s a smile in Viktor’s voice, the words gentle. “Oyasumi, Yuuri.”

“S-spokoynoy nochi!” Yuuri sputters, hoping he remembers the words right. Then, softer: “Sweet dreams.”

Viktor hums assent, and the line goes dead. Yuuri rolls his face into the mattress, sighs. It’s going to be a long twenty-six-and-a-half hours.

 

* * *

  

Travel is its own hellscape, but the fact that Yuuri isn’t _meant_ to be enjoying himself makes everything easier. There’s no one to pretend for; he can stare at his phone in perfect anonymity, face screwed into a frown, and no one will wonder why he’s not smiling. He dozes during the flights and the layover in Seoul, and somehow the hours are eaten away without any particular effort on his part. Soon he’s passing through security at Fukuoka airport—the home stretch.

His heart drums a rhythm, but his stiff legs go at their own pace. He’s lost in thought, wondering what to say to Viktor when he gets back to the inn. No—not _what_ to say. What order to say it in, what words to use. How to make Viktor understand?

A dog barks. Yuuri looks up, surprised, and sees paws against the glass wall—Makkachin’s familiar face, tongue lolling, as if he was never in any danger at all. Behind him, Viktor shocks up from a posture of waiting, rolling instantly to his feet.

Impatience, held at bay this long day, swallows Yuuri whole. Maybe Viktor feels it too; maybe that’s why he starts to run. The exit is right there, and it’s not close enough, and the doors—why automatic doors, when Yuuri could push through real doors faster—and then the doors are opening, and Viktor is right there, and Yuuri launches himself at him.

 _Here, safe. Home._ How had he thought hugging the other skaters could compare to Viktor’s arms around him, the sure strength of Viktor’s grip? This is where he belongs.

“Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice is soft. Long moments pass. “I’ve been thinking about what I can do as your coach from now on.”

Yuuri’s heart is hammering. Of course Viktor was thinking about the same thing; haven’t they walked the same line all along, on different sides? Tripping. Misunderstanding. “Me too,” he whispers. His grip tightens, and then he lets go, grips Viktor’s sleeves at a distance instead. He looks at Viktor, and the words that come out are dramatic, something he hadn’t expected himself to say outright—but he does anyway. “Stay with me. Be my coach until I retire.”

For a moment Yuuri feels vulnerable. It sounds greedy, bigheaded. Viktor is a star. _It’s only for a little while_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. _Just a little longer._

But Viktor takes his hand, kisses it, like Yuuri’s request is no imposition—like it’s welcome. “That sounds like a proposal,” he says. From his face, it’s a proposal he'll say _yes_ to, and Yuuri pulls close again. He can’t help clinging, can’t help the desperate need to be as close as possible.

“I wish you’d never retire,” Viktor says. Yuuri’s throat closes up. He wishes it were possible. Why now, after he’d already decided to stop? Why had he only met Viktor now, after so much time, so much effort? His stomach twists; his eyes fill. He holds on harder.

“Let’s win gold at the Grand Prix Final,” he manages. One last chance to prove himself. One last competition with Viktor in his corner, before Viktor goes to pick his career back up. He’ll make it count.

Eventually, Makkachin’s barking and the scrutiny of others loosens their embrace. Yuuri bends to pet Makkachin, swiping at his face as he does it.

“You’re never allowed to do that again,” Yuuri tells him. “We were both so worried.”

Makkachin barks, and Viktor pulls Yuuri up.

“Come on,” Viktor says. His voice sounds tight too, and it only makes it harder for Yuuri not to start crying again. “Let’s go home.”


	10. Homecomings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, and thank you to everyone who makes writing this worthwhile! You're the best. This chapter is basically all smut, but it you want to skip to the end at any point you can ctrl+f to "Yuuri," he whispers.
> 
> AHEM. Anyway, Arthur Miller once said that the best work anybody ever writes is on the verge of embarrassing them, always, in which case this chapter is my crowning achievement. Somehow, though, I don't think he was talking about this. Enjoy!

Yuuri’s grip on his hand is tight, as tight as Viktor could wish. He feels like he’s sixteen years old again, convinced that every move, every moment, counts. He can’t bear to let go, but Yuuri can’t seem to either. If passersby are offended, Viktor doesn’t care; it’s either this or sweep Yuuri up in his arms, carry him all the way back to the inn. He could do it, too, but it doesn't ever quite become necessary.

When they get back to the inn it’s quiet, sleepy. Most of the lights in the main area are off, but a TV is going somewhere, providing soft background chatter. No one is around.

Yuuri stops in the entryway, looks reluctantly towards the onsen.

“I need to wash.”

Viktor knows how it feels after a long flight, but if he doesn’t care why should Yuuri? When he voices this Yuuri lets out a huff of laughter.

“I’ll come back. And be fast.” He sees Viktor’s reluctance. “You can put Makkachin to bed.”

Viktor isn’t pleased. He’s a few grains of self-control from picking Yuuri up and carrying him to the bedroom, but he supposes that would set the wrong tone for the night. He doesn’t even care about sex; he just wants to be close. Two days’ separation carved into him, and they weren’t easy days. The first one was spent at a vet who spoke virtually no English while Makkachin hovered between life and death, leaving Viktor to his frustrated vigil. He’d paced and worried, unsure how anything worked in Japan despite Mari and Hiroko’s best translations, and then when Makkachin was on the road to recovery all Viktor had wanted was to be back in Moscow. He wanted to go over Yuuri’s free skate, discuss what went wrong, but he doesn’t even feel like he has the right to do that.

He wasn’t there. He promised, and he wasn’t there.

He wants to be there for Yuuri—not just in skating. _Stay with me until I retire_. The words ring in his mind. He hopes for years—for decades.

Why should retirement even come into it?

Yuuri leaves to bathe, and Viktor settles Makkachin on his dog bed, petting him until he grows tired. He needs the rest, especially now. Once Makkachin is asleep there’s no reason to stay in the room, so he heads for the inn’s showers. Yuuri is sitting on a stool, hair dripping, but the water has been shut off. His head is in his hands.

“Yuuri?”

He looks up. Has he been crying? Or was he lost in thought?

“You’re taking too long,” Viktor says.

“I spaced out,” Yuuri says.

“Do you want to soak?”

“No, this is fine. Are you… will you wait outside?”

Viktor wonders why Yuuri would get shy _now_ of all times—they’ve bathed together too often to count—but he remembers his pose when he entered. Perhaps he needs a moment to collect himself. That’s fine, but Viktor enters the shower room anyway, his socks soaking up water from the tile. He kneels next to Yuuri, stares up into his face.

“Viktor?”

Viktor pushes at Yuuri’s dripping hair so it’s out of the way. He moves to close the distance between them, stretching up to kiss him. Yuuri’s mouth opens over his. It’s gentle, not urgent, and Yuuri seems to melt into it, wet hands coming to rest against Viktor’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. When Viktor draws back, Yuuri leans just a little to lengthen the kiss. His eyes are heavy-lidded.

“Viktor…”

Their foreheads press together. Yuuri’s wet hands hold on tight to Viktor’s shirt, the damp reaching Viktor’s skin. The room is utterly silent but for Yuuri’s loud breathing, and it makes Viktor worry. The kiss wasn’t hard enough to warrant the unevenness in Yuuri’s breathing, and that means a panic is oncoming, or just past, and he isn’t sure which one it is or how to ask.

 _You asked me to stay_ , Viktor wants to say. _How can I do more for you? How can I do everything for you?_

“I can wait outside,” he says instead, softly. He rises, and Yuuri’s hands unclench. They drop to his knees. Yuuri’s shoulders are bowed, looking almost defeated—and then they square.

“I didn’t zone out,” Yuuri says suddenly, desperately. He looks up at Viktor, then quickly away. “I was trying to—to convince myself you didn’t mean what I think you did, that we misunderstood each other. I was trying to tell myself you were just caught up in the moment.”

Viktor kneels again, his heart in his throat. “I meant it. I mean it. Everything. Yuuri, the past few days have been torture. I left you alone when you needed me. Watching your free skate from a thousand miles away...”

Yuuri flinches, but he doesn’t retreat. His eyes are fixed on the wet tile. “You’ll never have to do that again,” he says softly.

There’s a swooping feeling in Viktor’s stomach, like the moment of weightless descent on a rollercoaster. He sucks in a breath, then drags his finger along Yuuri’s bottom lip, tracing the path of that vow. “No,” he says, and it feels like he’s made up of only light and air. “I won’t.”

Yuuri’s eyes find his, and then Yuuri is crashing into him, kissing him desperately. He’s wet and naked and there’s no pretense, no holding back. Viktor’s heart is a sweet ache in his chest as Yuuri slides off the stool to wrap his arms and legs around him, mouth set against Viktor’s and tongue a slick caress against his, as if even the minutes they spent apart just now were too much. They _were_ too much. Viktor gathers Yuuri up, the muscles in his thighs straining as he stands. He holds onto him to keep him from falling, but he needn’t have bothered. Someone with Yuuri’s lower body strength need never ask for help in climbing anything he can wrap his thighs around. Viktor’s waist is being crushed. Pleasantly crushed. He’ll split in two happily, with the guy he loves drinking him in as if he’s air.

There are no words, because words would mean stopping long enough to speak. They don’t. Once Viktor has his balance he moves to where a robe is folded up and hangs it over Yuuri’s shoulders in case they encounter someone on their way through the inn. Water trails down Viktor’s face from Yuuri’s hair. His front is soaked, as are the bands of fabric where Yuuri’s legs and arms wrap around him. It feels curiously like a christening, the application of holy water. It’s holy to Viktor, welcome beyond words.

Yuuri is back. Yuuri is back, and they never have to be apart again. Viktor wants him desperately, to reassure himself that he’s really here, really his. The water soaking into Viktor’s clothes and dripping down his neck is a good start, but he wants more. He pushes through the doors to the hallway and steps surely towards his room, holding the robe in place. Yuuri doesn’t stop kissing him, and at one point he thrusts his hips, pushing his cock flush with Viktor’s stomach. As punishment—retribution—Viktor pins him against a wall, detaches their mouths to kiss along the side of Yuuri’s neck, the skin wet and sweet. He licks, because it’s delicious, and then he bites, because he can’t help himself.

Yuuri whimpers.

“Sorry,” Viktor mumbles. He loves it when Yuuri’s rough, but it doesn’t feel right to bite or scratch at Yuuri. Yuuri is his treasure, his skater. He wants to worship him with every breath.

“I’m not,” Yuuri says, sounding choked. The hardness against Viktor’s stomach is impossible to ignore, especially with the way Yuuri is moving against him. Viktor stumbles the last few meters towards his room, carrying Yuuri inside before closing the door firmly behind him. _Finally_. The light is still on, and Makkachin stirs but doesn’t wake on their entry. Nothing will stop him from getting what he wants.

He lets the robe fall as it’s wanted to all along and moves them to the bed. Yuuri holds on tight, and Viktor lets go of him to crawl up the bed on all fours, until he can lay Yuuri down in the sheets. He makes it a slow, complete motion, a roll of his whole body. The pressure around his waist lets up, Yuuri’s strong thighs no longer clamped tight, and he uses his new freedom to trail kisses down Yuuri’s jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He sucks Yuuri’s nipple into his mouth, drawing out a gasp.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, voice strained and legs kicking. He squirms on the bed. “I want…”

“I know,” Viktor breathes. He’s already fumbling with the button on his trousers one-handed, his other hand planted against the mattress to keep himself raised. His clothes are wet, but Yuuri’s skin has mostly dried, and he can’t wait for the slide of skin against skin, Yuuri’s cool against his warm—

“No,” Yuuri says. He rises onto his elbows and looks into Viktor’s eyes with an intensity that makes Viktor’s breath stop in his throat. “In the hotel room in Moscow, you said we could. If I wanted.”

Viktor is going to die of asphyxiation above his foreign boyfriend, one hand on his trouser button, his mouth open but no air going in. “Hm?” he manages at last, the muscles of his throat a vice.

Finally Yuuri looks away. “I’ve never done it before. I thought maybe you could show me—be the one in control first—if you even like to—”

For a moment Viktor’s hands are shaking and he’s not sure what to say. It’s just that he was so ready a moment ago, and now Yuuri has changed his expectations. That’s all. It’s not—it’s definitely not, it can’t be… _performance anxiety._ Most skaters are familiar with the feeling, but Viktor has made it his life’s work to remove it from his bank of possible emotions, so he can’t be feeling it now.

The sensation of being blindsided fades after a moment, his attention drawn to the bob of Yuuri’s throat as he swallows, the slide of Yuuri’s tongue as he wets his bottom lip. The gap of age and experience hangs in the air between them, significant now in a way it rarely is. Yuuri looks so young but so certain, and Viktor wants to fulfil his every fantasy in a way that probably isn’t possible.

Probably.

But Viktor has also made a career of redefining what’s possible, and calm steals over him.

“Is that why you wanted to wash?” he asks, voice low.

“Not just that,” Yuuri says in a rush. He licks his lips again. “Well?”

Viktor leans down to nuzzle his neck, licks it again. No biting this time. This is his Yuuri, his prize. “Can you even dream I’d say no?”

“Yes.” Yuuri’s heels dig into the mattress trying to bring their bodies together. The pressure pastes Viktor’s wet clothes to his skin. “I’ve imagined you saying no the entire flight.”

“To this?”

“To all sorts of things.” Yuuri swallows. “Viktor…”

“I refuse to say no,” Viktor says. He slides his hands along Yuuri’s sides, slots their hips together with Yuuri’s help. “Yes to everything from now on.”

Yuuri lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “That’ll last until I pick out a tie.”

“We’ve discussed that,” Viktor says. He runs his tongue along the ridge of Yuuri’s collarbone. “I’m the one who picks your ties.”

He wants to dress Yuuri more often. Not every day—there’s a part of him that melts from seeing Yuuri in his usual, unflattering clothes, soft and welcoming—but every now and then…

He moves down Yuuri’s body, exploring with his mouth and hands. This is the brave boy who sent him away, who wanted to make sure Viktor wouldn’t face the same regret he did about his dog. He faced Rostelecom alone because his kindness outweighed his fear. How to kiss, how to touch, to thank him for that? For who he is and who he’ll be in the years to come? Viktor wants everything perfect. He kisses the pale, thunderstrike lines on Yuuri’s abdomen, caresses his thighs front to back, kneads the muscles of his glutes on the way back up his body. If Yuuri minds the wet of Viktor’s clothes against his straining cock he makes no mention of it. His sounds are sounds of pleasure, gasps and sighs; he stretches out beneath Viktor with sensual need, moving in response to Viktor’s touches but not forcing him to speed up. Perhaps he knows how much Viktor needs this, how much he wants to press into his body and remove the distance between them.

Viktor turns him gently. Yuuri sighs into the pillows as Viktor leans down against him to kiss the back of his neck. He moves along Yuuri’s shoulders, caresses along his spine, spreads his cheeks as he kneads and explores. Yuuri moans at the last bit, and Viktor can guess why.

“You’ve used toys before,” Viktor whispers, “haven’t you?”

Three jerky nods. “Yes. Yes, plenty.”

 _Of course_. Of course Yuuri has, but the confirmation still makes the ache of Viktor’s erection more urgent, harder to ignore. He has to swallow spit, calm himself, except the next moment he’s kissing the back of Yuuri’s neck and murmuring, “Do you ever think of me?”

“All the time. Yes. Of course. I only… of course I do.”

Viktor is still wearing clothes, but he pushes against Yuuri as if he might slide into him despite that, the want in his body demanding movement no matter how futile it is. Viktor was Yuuri’s idol once. Of course he’s thought of him. But the reality of hearing it—of hearing _all the time_ —thinking of Yuuri using toys and imagining _him_ …

“Please,” Yuuri says, and Viktor’s calm snaps further. Viktor isn’t pushy in bed normally—he’s more inclined to be demanding than pushy—but Yuuri unlocks something inside of him. He cants his hips into Yuuri again, breathing out hard. He needs to get his clothes off, needs to prepare Yuuri, but the burn inside of him is impatient, demanding. The damp rub of his shirt is almost painful against his sensitive skin as he moves against Yuuri’s back, kissing his neck. Yuuri moves with him.

“I need to…” Viktor says, and then he’s kneeling, unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers, undoing his trousers. Once he’s undone but still dressed he steps one foot off the bed to grab the hidden items from the box in his bookshelf. Yuuri rolls to watch him, and the hungry look he gives Viktor’s open fly as he kneels back down is intensely flattering. Lust renders Yuuri in darker colours, with deeper shadows and brighter highlights. The contrast is beautiful.

“Can I use my mouth?” Viktor asks, aware of the flush on his own cheeks. It burns in his face and his chest. His nipples are cold and hard, damp from the shirt. Yuuri must see how tight they are too, because he comes up on his knees before Viktor and rubs his chest, seeking the hard nubs of his nipples with his hands like warm brands. Viktor trembles with the deliciousness of heat against his cold, pebbled skin. Yuuri licks where his hands have been, digs fingers into Viktor’s sides. The flip in Viktor begins to switch, making him want to receive. _Not yet_. Not tonight. Later, if he does this right.

“I asked you a question,” he says, voice shaky.

“Ah?” Yuuri blinks at him, then seems to remember the question. “Your mouth? For—for where?”

Viktor brushes his lips against Yuuri’s cheek, mouths at the hinge of his jaw. “To prepare you,” he murmurs. He’s never done it before, but he’d do it with Yuuri. He’d do anything.

The red flush that washes over Yuuri’s skin only makes Viktor want to do it more, but Yuuri’s head jerks sideways in a no. “Oh. I—I couldn’t.”

Viktor smiles. “ _You_ wouldn’t have to do anything. That’s the charm.”

“No, I—not yet.”

The _not yet_ sets a shiver in Viktor’s belly—a promise of other times, other nights and days and places to explore each other. Viktor nods, not missing Yuuri’s tremble of relief, or disappointment, or a mixture of both.

Yuuri’s gaze tracks back to Viktor’s partially exposed chest, and Viktor rolls his shoulders to get free of the shirt. Yuuri helps him, his movements somehow impatient and reverent at the same time. Viktor’s trousers, wet at the knees, are next. Viktor leaves his underwear on as a warning to himself not to go too fast, despite the hungry look he gets from Yuuri, and then he’s pushing Yuuri back down, kissing a line down his stomach. Yuuri isn’t the only one lusting; when the head of Yuuri’s cock pokes Viktor’s neck on his descent he moves to take it into his mouth, laves up and down easily. Silk skin over hard steel, hot and aroused for him, to feel him. He caresses with his tongue, sighs against flushed skin. He could spend all day like this, he thinks; as he moves there’s a wash of bitterness against his tongue, and he lets himself go for just a little longer, his hand at the base of Yuuri’s cock. Saliva drips down onto his fingers, giving him ideas—reminding him there’s more. He gathers up the slick and finds the tight pucker of Yuuri’s entrance, feels Yuuri twitch and sigh. He’s sensitive.

Of course he is.

Viktor kisses Yuuri’s length for a moment longer before moving to grab the bottle he laid next to Yuuri earlier. His hands don’t tremble as he squirts lube onto his fingers, but his stomach feels suspended. They’re so close to doing this, and he’s not sure he can live up to his own expectations. He wants everything for Yuuri. The love in his body is too much for him. How can he possibly feed it all back into Yuuri?

Then again, how can he stand not to?

With another touch—just a touch—Yuuri shifts and relaxes for him; Viktor’s finger slides into him like the pressure is welcome. He adds a second, Yuuri’s obvious experience with the stimulation expediting the process. How easily he accommodates Viktor makes Viktor’s vision hazy, his body tight with everything he can’t do yet. He falls to Yuuri’s cock again, licking as he explores with his fingers. Yuuri’s gasped breaths encourage him to do more, to spread his fingers, to thrust. After a brief exploration he lets Yuuri’s cock fall from his mouth, chances a glance up—and sees Yuuri messy and red, no glasses, biting his lip as he strains back against the bed. He’s so…

_Responsive. You knew that._

Viktor swallows. Yuuri’s body evokes poetry. His emotions spike higher and lower than Viktor’s, and for all that Viktor’s learned to read them he still isn’t sure how to draw them all out. He wants to stoke his pleasure as high as it will go, watch him come apart. He wants to drive into him until his light and colour bleed over.

He’s getting ahead of himself, for all that Yuuri is pressing up against his knuckles.

“Please, Viktor,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t look at him as he says it; his arms are up beside his head, grabbing at the pillow. The muscles of his chest and arms stand out. Viktor should have spent more time licking them. He thrusts his fingers hard, wonders if he should add another to prepare—

“I’m ready, I’m ready, please, I want you—”

If Yuuri had tried to be seductive it wouldn’t have worked half so well, but as it is his muddled words make Viktor give up anything resembling patience, drawing his fingers away. They’re slick and hard to use getting his underwear off, then sliding on the condom packet, but he gets it open, makes sure the condom is facing the right way. It should be easy but it’s hard; it’s hard not to drop it from his suddenly shaking hands and just go. He has a clean bill of health, and Yuuri has never been with anyone else, but it seems impolite to even suggest it. At any rate he manages, though he feels every second like a strike against him. He’s lubing himself up when Yuuri looks down, takes in the sight of Viktor in a thin sheath of latex.

“I’ve never put one on,” Yuuri says, eyes slowly tracking up. “Can I do it next time?”

Viktor chokes out a laugh, more pained than amused. “Of course.”

“Would it work if I used my mouth?”

“Are you trying to make this as short as possible?” Viktor asks. He drinks in the sight of Yuuri below him, the flush of his skin and the damp, messy state of his hair. His cock against his abdomen is beautiful; Viktor hasn’t spent enough time worshipping it. He hasn’t spent enough time worshipping any part of Yuuri; it feels like a sin.

 _We have time_ , he thinks. He makes notes for later. Places to kiss, lick, touch. Then there are all the places on Yuuri’s back, currently out of sight. He could spend a week on—

“Do it, please,” Yuuri says. He’s stopped meeting Viktor’s gaze; the hungry look is back, zeroed in on Viktor’s cock. Viktor wipes his hand on the coverlet and moves forward, dips until he’s situated between Yuuri’s thighs. Only then does Yuuri look back up at him, pupils nearly indistinguishable from his irises. Viktor brushes his hair back. He’s never done this with someone he loves before, and the moment stretches out while he takes a breath, struck by Yuuri’s face below his. _Until I retire_ , Yuuri had said.

 _Forever_ , Viktor thinks but doesn’t say, and when Yuuri stretches up to kiss him he leans down to meet his mouth, kisses back desperately. He reaches between them as they kiss, aligns himself. A moan of want from Yuuri is the last invitation he needs; he pushes in. It’s like nothing else, warm and tight and contracting around him in welcome. He sees stars, hears Yuuri’s sounds of satisfaction. No pain, then. He could go to the hilt in one thrust with Yuuri, he thinks, but he’s afraid it would be too much. He stays where he is, breathing hard.

Yuuri kisses harder, hands fisting in Viktor’s hair. “More,” he says between kisses. _A demon_ , Viktor thinks. _Yuuri is a demon._

His demon, though. He gives him more, rolls his hips until he feels the wall of Yuuri’s body against him. Yuuri’s intense heat radiates up through him, and the pressure of Yuuri’s thighs coming up to squeeze him, feet pulling him in tighter, makes him lose his breath. Each inhale in jagged; each exhale comes too hard. Yuuri’s body is heaven, pure and simple. Yuuri’s grasping hands…

“Viktor,” Yuuri gasps. “Viktor.”

Viktor moves, because it’s impossible not to. The difficult thing would be to stop when every motion, every breath of Yuuri’s is beckoning him onwards. Fire feeds through him, and he stops their kiss to lave at Yuuri’s neck. He presses kisses to Yuuri’s shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. It sounds like the kind of thing anyone might say to anyone during sex; it’s not enough. It’s not enough, but what is? He tries not to bite, though Yuuri takes a bruising grip on his back. Yuuri’s cock rubs wetly against Viktor’s abdomen, swollen and full, but when Viktor reaches to touch it Yuuri grabs his hand, moves it to his thigh instead.

“Harder,” he says. “I want you, Viktor.”

“You have me,” Viktor says on an exhale. Sweat is beading on his skin. Slick heat coats him where he’s joined with Yuuri. Yuuri has him, and he’ll have him forever. This brave boy, this utterly unexpected gift. Viktor clamps a hand below the curve of Yuuri’s ass to lift him; he begins to thrust harder, watching Yuuri’s face. Yuuri’s head tips back. His hands fall away from Viktor, disappear into his own hair. His eyes are screwed shut, taking him.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Yuuri is whispering. The red flushing his skin makes him glow. Brown-black eyes find Viktor’s face, look at him almost in disbelief—as if he expected to find another face there. “It’s really you.”

Viktor laughs, thought it sounds strangled. “Yes, Yuuri. It’s me.”

“I’m so—” a thrust that cuts off Yuuri’s breath into a moan, then: “glad. Keep going.”

It makes Viktor laugh again. One day, he’ll understand the way Yuuri’s mind works, but it’s probably still several years into the future. The thought doesn’t displease him. Years of this, of Yuuri’s heat, his strong body, his soft skin, his voice telling Viktor to keep going. Viktor would go forever, even with his body beginning to tremble with the need for release.

_Not before he does. Not before._

Yuuri is squirming, begging wordlessly. Viktor lifts the leg he holds, pushes into him again, and several nonverbal nods tell him it’s what Yuuri wanted. Viktor almost has the angle; he adjusts, and then Yuuri is gasping.

“Yes,” Yuuri says again, but his movements speak for him even before he says it. Each thrust he meets; his body welcomes Viktor, takes him in that extra span. Viktor could lose himself in him easily. Each heartbeat brings a corresponding ache, almost triumphant in his chest, a counterpoint to the ragged climb of pleasure.

“Yuuri,” he says, free hand roving his hips, stomach. “Mine. All mine.” He hears himself and wonders if it’s too much, even now. He should have stuck to compliments—

“Yes,” Yuuri says. His eyes find Viktor’s, though lust and need make them glassy. “Yours.”

Viktor can’t hold on much longer. His banquet boy, his skater, his Yuuri. Nothing in his life was ever quite like this. Yuuri has caught him by surprise, pulled him in and changed him. His world has opened up.

He’s up on his knees by now, Yuuri’s hips meeting every sharp movement. The sounds Yuuri makes fill the room.

“Can I touch you?” Viktor rasps. Is that really his voice?

“Yes. Please. Please, Viktor—”

Viktor doesn’t have to be told again. One hand keeps Yuuri up, Yuuri’s back arching from his shoulders as if it’s another poledancing trick, and the other grips him firmly.

“Show me,” Viktor says, with an edge of desperation. _Just a little longer. Just a little longer._ His body quakes on the edge of his orgasm, but he won’t let himself fall no matter how good Yuuri feels around him. No matter how much he’s wanted this through all the confusion of the past days. It feels like a homecoming, but it can’t last forever. He can’t make himself last forever. He just needs to last long enough, for his cock to keep finding that spot inside of Yuuri that longs for him. He sucks in a breath when the pleasure nearly sends him over.

 _Not yet, not yet, not yet_ —Yuuri’s legs jerk him closer. Only Yuuri can lead from an angle like that, his body strong, demanding. He’s stopped begging, words failing him. Viktor tugs at his cock in something like desperation, drives into him. The precipice is near; he feels it draw close with every breath. If he doesn’t slow…

Yuuri’s gasps finally come to a head. His whole body tenses around Viktor. For a moment he’s bent at his ridiculous angle, his abs a sight, eyes obscured by his lashes, taking Viktor with a single-minded need no one has before—and then streams of white are erupting from him, not quite caught by Viktor’s shifting hand, and the relief in Viktor’s belly is overblown but real. He’s managed. He got Yuuri to—to… Yuuri is still twitching, contracting, and the sight of his come tells Viktor to let go, to allow himself this. He remembers it’s not just about Yuuri, even if it feels like it is. Viktor has always been good at enjoying things. He lets himself feel the contractions around him, the deep heat, Yuuri’s sobbing breaths. It’s enough. He moves hard one last time, hips snapping, and then he’s coming too. Yuuri’s body is ready for him, spent as he is, and it seems to go on and on, the room’s light turning hazy-bright in Viktor’s vision. He loses himself for long moments, the want in him straining, caught, straining… and then Yuuri is letting himself un-arch his back, and Viktor follows him down. A last roll of his hips, so he’s truly done, and he doesn’t know if the shuddering breath he hears comes from him or Yuuri. Maybe they did it in tandem.

“Yuuri,” he whispers. He finds his eyes are closed; he opens them, looks at the face beneath his. Yuuri’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his mouth open.

“I want that again and again,” Yuuri manages.

Viktor laughs weakly into his neck. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Viktor…”

Viktor pulls back, waiting for whatever is coming, but on Yuuri’s lips his name is a rhetorical question—or a philosophical one. _Viktor_. Like he’s a concept Yuuri can’t quite understand. The triumphant light in Yuuri’s eyes makes amusement bubble in Viktor’s stomach.

“Yes?” he asks.

Yuuri glances down, sees the mess on his stomach. “I’m disgusting. Again.”

“Never,” Viktor says, kissing along his shoulder. Yuuri hums. “Do you want to bathe together?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “I want to spend all night with you.”

“We have to sleep.” Viktor lives in fear of Yuuri’s stamina—fear and excitement. “You need to get into a normal rhythm.”

“I know.” Yuuri’s eyes find his. There’s something guileless about them, innocent for all that he and Viktor are joined together in a sticky mess. “I don’t need anything more. I just want to hold you for a long time.”

The swell of feeling in Viktor’s chest is bright and overwhelming; he doles it out in kisses along Yuuri’s jawline, repeated murmurs of his name. _Yuuri. Yuuri. Yuuri._ At last he kisses Yuuri’s mouth, soft and with all the sweetness he can manage. “Let’s bathe,” he says as he draws back.

Yuuri ducks his head in a nod, then gazes at Viktor with open longing as Viktor pulls away—as if he hasn’t just had him. As if Viktor is going anywhere. Viktor smiles as he gets himself in order, comfortable under the crush of Yuuri’s love. It’s everything he could wish for, everything he never thought to ask. _I’m yours, Yuuri_. Had he said that during? He doesn’t remember. He’ll have to say it some other time, when it won’t sound too heavy.

Yuuri wipes himself off and joins him, taking his hand. They don robes so as not to shock anyone they might come across in the hall, and set off. Yuuri’s hand is tight around his all the way, and it turns out he meant it.

He holds Viktor for a long time; all night, by Viktor’s estimation.


	11. A Tale That Never Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri learns about the banquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo everyone! Nice to see you again Cx At long last: the banquet reveal!! I'm so excited and I hope you enjoy how I've written the aftermath. I didn't want to spend too long on the actual events of the episode so if it seems rushed that's why. (Sorry.)
> 
> Things start out a little hot and heavy, so scroll to the section break if you'd rather avoid desperation-tinged nsfw. Other than that—thank you as always, and Barcelona here we go!

Yuuri isn’t sure whether Barcelona looms or beckons. The days pass, spent in almost constant preparation. The moments he spends on the ice with Viktor are a gift he never expected to receive; the moments he spends with him in bed are just the same. It all seems to belong in someone else’s life, but Yuuri grabs it with both hands nonetheless. He’s shameless, greedy, and he’ll take it all while he can. When he and Viktor touch down in Barcelona, he’s not ready—but a niggling idea has started to take shape inside of him, and it tides him over.

Perhaps it’s not necessary to retire mid-season. It would be better for Viktor, being able to return early, not losing more time than he needs to—but Yuuri has gotten used to the high of being with Viktor, and he thinks that, perhaps, he can be forgiven if he hangs on a little longer. Just a little longer, not forever. Just to finish it all out, instead of quitting on a high where he faltered the year before.

Once at the hotel, they unpack their things and shower. Mint toothpaste dissolves the fuzzy feeling in Yuuri’s mouth, and a near-hysterical level of giddiness fills him as he and Viktor take turns under the stream of water. Viktor got a head start. He’s almost done when Yuuri turns him around and presses their mouths together, the excess water making their lips slide messily in a kiss. Viktor doesn’t step back, or tell Yuuri to stop. A monster in Yuuri’s belly makes Yuuri grab at Viktor’s hips, pull them together ruthlessly. Water falls around them, loud as a summer rainstorm, but it doesn’t block out Viktor’s surprised gasp melting to a moan. It’s all the encouragement Yuuri needs. He kisses him deeply, hands bruising on Viktor’s hips before sliding back over hard muscle. How many fantasies has Yuuri had about what he holds in his hands now? How many hours had he spent fantasising as a teen? Days? Weeks?

Every frustrated night—every long afternoon wondering if he’d ever fill the emptiness inside of him—culminates under the crash of water, the press of their bodies together. Viktor Nikiforov is hard against his abdomen, his hands sliding into Yuuri’s hair. The monster inside Yuuri tears through any contentment he might have felt, demanding everything. No gentleness, now; Yuuri drops to his knees, needing to do more, feel more. He takes Viktor into his mouth, holding his hips once more. A glance up tells him nothing; water streams down, and all Yuuri can see is the curtain of Viktor’s hair as he looks down. It doesn’t matter. He can feel the weight of Viktor against his tongue, the length of him nudging at his throat as he relaxes the muscles there to take him in.

There’s no finesse. Yuuri’s mouth works at Viktor sloppily, desperately, and Viktor falls back against the wall. An uneven tile digs into Yuuri’s knee; he savours the sensation, savours everything. He wants to devour Viktor, and nothing will stop him.

The hot pulse of Viktor’s orgasm down his throat comes almost as a surprise. _I’m not done_ , he wants to say. He wants to keep Viktor inside of him, but Viktor is gasping and drawing him up to his feet, clasping him close, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Yuuri,” he says.

“That wasn’t enough,” Yuuri says, voice rasping, and he feels Viktor’s hands on him. That isn’t what he meant. There’s an emptiness on his tongue. He wants to work Viktor over, go and go and go—

Yuuri’s head drops forward, his breath cutting short. Viktor’s clever hands make quick work of him; in this state it doesn’t take much. He can go a hundred times, a thousand. He has no plans until this evening.

His come spurts between them, the water washing it away before it can stick. Thick pleasure courses through him in shockwaves. He stands breathing hard, wanting more before his body can ask for it. Viktor’s gaze on him makes his skin tingle.

_One more time_ , he pleads silently, gaze on the floor. He needs Viktor to pull him through this mood. Viktor’s hands caress along his bent neck, his raised shoulders.

“Finish showering,” Viktor murmurs into his ear. The caress of his fingers is a promise. “Then join me. I’m getting out.”  

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime during round two Viktor gasps that he’d expected Yuuri to be tired. It turns out he’s right; after a second orgasm Yuuri finds himself unable to keep his eyes open, and all he hears is a murmured _sleep well_ before oblivion pulls him under. When he wakes up it’s hours later and he’s alone, Phichit having ventured out without him. Regret wells up; it’s not like he gets a lot of chances to see his friend, and he slept through their planned meeting.

The evening rolls over into skating practice the next day, and it’s all as familiar as breathing—seeing the other competitors, the rivalries, even the hallways and rooms—but the thought that it could all end in a few days makes everything feel more immediate. He’s crushingly aware of Viktor no matter where they go, where he stands, and when Viktor suggests rest and an early bedtime Yuuri can’t abide the thought.

“I want to go sightseeing,” he hears himself say, and absorbs the glow of Viktor’s approval. _I can’t lose him_ , he thinks. _Not yet._

It’s much later that day, walking down a street merry with stalls and Christmas lights and window displays, that the feeling manifests into something real. The jewellery shop window catches his eye—and then he’s surging forward, spurred by a longing he didn’t know he had.

Afterwards, when he and Viktor wear matching rings, he can’t quite believe he had the courage to do it or that Viktor went along with it, but perhaps Viktor understands what they mean, the rings. Wedding rings, but not for a wedding—more a wish than a promise: that they’ll come back to each other, somehow. That there are no endings. It’s what Yuuri hopes for with all his heart, even knowing that Viktor can’t be with him forever.

Somehow, some way, they’ll belong together.

His hand feels different with the ring on it. He can’t help touching it with his thumb, achingly aware of the matching one on Viktor’s finger. _A good luck charm_. One Viktor accepted, aware of the undeniable symbolism. Something hot squirms in Yuuri’s stomach as they make their way through the city. His buoyant mood lasts and lasts—and perhaps that’s how he ends up at a table filled with top skaters, plus Mari and Minako.

Friends, or at least friendlies. He can’t believe how far he’s come—as if Viktor has opened a door for him. But it’s not just Viktor. It’s Phichit too: Phichit, who can jump into any situation and land on his feet. Between the two of them, they’ve smoothed out Yuuri’s rough edges, allowed him to sink into the company as if he belongs there.

He glows with it.

In fact, he glows with it so much he can’t help but remark on it. He sounds giddy, but he doesn’t care.

“At last year’s Final I was always by myself, even at the banquet,” he reminisces. He has to laugh, not meeting anyone’s eyes—almost embarrassed by the memory. “I couldn’t even talk to Viktor.”

There’s a beat of silence—a weird lack of acknowledgement for his embarrassing confession—and then Viktor is spitting his drink, turning to him.

“You don’t remember?” he asks.

Yuuri doesn’t have time to respond, though confusion freezes him. Chris’s next comment about champagne has him swallowing hard, dawning horror running chill through his veins.

“Dance… dance-off?”

It doesn’t stop—not soon, anyway. They’re all happy to tell him what a fool he made of himself. All Yuuri remembers is standing at the drinks table, waiting until he’d stayed long enough to leave without offending anyone. He woke up miserable and sore the next day—but hungover sore. Not… not…

_Not drunk dance-off and poledancing sore._ Had the alcohol still been dulling his senses when he woke in the morning? It’s the only explanation. How could he not have _known_?

He’s still reeling from the fact that he made a fool of himself when the next blunder hits: Chris noticing the rings. He’d thought of what he’d tell people—a calm explanation—but the dance-off thing has him flustered. His words trip off his tongue, ill-informed, and Viktor is the one who saves it.

“It’s an engagement ring,” he proclaims, to Yuuri’s mingled delight and despair.

_It’s not_ , he thinks, looking at Viktor. Then: _Could it be?_

The ring on Viktor’s finger glints; Viktor’s face is smug. “We’ll get married once he wins a gold medal.”

_Oh_. The metaphorical gauntlet has been thrown. Some of Yuuri’s delight drains out. It’s about skating. Of course it’s about skating—and they’re at a table full of top skaters, all gunning for the same prize. The nearby space heaters can’t compete with the sudden heat of all those eyes on him. Yuuri stops fidgeting, frozen—and is saved by a voice from behind him.

“I’ll be the one winning the gold medal!”

Yuuri’s gratitude is cut with annoyance. JJ and his perfect jumps, his stunningly difficult programme. JJ is one of the dark figures that haunt him when he can’t sleep—but then, so are the others at the table.

_But I like_ them, Yuuri thinks. When they all file out, abandoning JJ to his proclamations, Yuuri doesn’t feel particularly bad about abandoning the loud Canadian. He has his real fiancé with him, after all; he’ll get to keep her. Yuuri looks at Viktor and swallows something bittersweet.

_A good luck charm. An engagement ring. A promise_. Nothing will keep two people together if they decide to be apart, but Yuuri can put it off for now. He can skate longer than he meant to, send Viktor back later than scheduled. It’s selfish, but it’s his decision.

Viktor isn’t looking at him. Not in the hotel lobby, and not in the elevator. They’re in their hotel room, coats off, before Viktor seems ready to talk at all.

“Tea?” he asks.

“Caffeine…” Yuuri murmurs, gesturing vaguely at the bed. He needs a good night’s sleep, even if he’s unlikely to get one.

“Herbal tea,” Viktor corrects. He fills the room’s small kettle and flicks the switch, his movements filled with restless energy. He paces, hands coming to his face. He taps his chin, rakes a hand through his hair. Yuuri can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Viktor snaps before the kettle boils, turning to look at Yuuri where Yuuri sits innocently on the bed, watching.

“You don’t remember the banquet,” Viktor says. It should be a question, but it’s a statement. Yuuri nods anyway.

“None of it?” Viktor asks.

“I thought I drank myself into a stupor and left. I was planning to, I think.” How many drinks in had he thought that? Three? Four? The gap in his memory is disconcerting in light of what the other skaters told him. To think he’d been awake and aware, but ignorant of it after…

Viktor’s face is hidden by his hand as he rubs his forehead. “Let me get this straight,” he says, still hidden from view. “For you, our first meeting was at the onsen. In Japan.”

“Well, there was… before that. When you talked about a commemorative photo.” Yuuri aches with shame at the thought of it, even in light of all that happened after. He’d been unable to face Viktor; he’d turned his back. It seems unbearably rude now.

Viktor doesn’t respond. He fiddles with his phone, and then the kettle is done boiling, and he’s making them tea. Yuuri doesn’t want tea, but he accepts the cup Viktor sets in his hands minutes later, wondering what Viktor is thinking. He’s awfully quiet, but the tension from earlier is undiminished. Yuuri watches him pace.

“You don’t remember the banquet,” Viktor says again. His phone is buzzing almost constantly, but he ignores it, gaze fixed on Yuuri.

“I don’t remember doing anything interesting at the banquet,” Yuuri says. “Like I said—”

Viktor holds up a hand. “Okay, Yuuri.” He takes his phone out of his pocket at last, checking his messages. He takes a while, then hands Yuuri the phone. “Look through that folder. Please.”

Yuuri takes the phone. The folder is a mix of photos and videos. He goes through them in order, face growing hot. Is he wearing his tie around his head? And then—where are his trousers? _Where is his shirt?_

It gets worse and worse. Yuuri’s face feels numb, and he’s extremely aware of Viktor watching him. This isn’t how he expected this night to end. At the very least he had expected Viktor’s hands sliding under his clothes, maybe some teasing. Not this tense, expectant silence interrupted by tinny videos from an event almost a year ago. Eventually Yuuri sets the phone down.

He stares out in front of him for a long time, hand curled around his teacup.

“Well?” Viktor says.

“I can never show my face again,” Yuuri says, voice cracking. His mind zooms back to his first time meeting Chris. Or more accurately: his _second_ time meeting Chris. No wonder Chris had been so familiar with him. Everyone must think he’s a… a…

A what? An exhibitionist? They’re figure skaters; they’re meant to be. But not like _that_. And then he’d jumped onto the ice with his Eros routine, which had to confirm everything everyone thought of him already.

Yuuri puts the tea down and drops until he’s lying facedown on the bed. He groans for good measure.

“It’s late for that,” Viktor says primly. “Don’t you want me to tell you about our first conversation?”

“How bad was it?” Yuuri asks, voice muffled.

There’s a long silence. Yuuri imagines all the terrible things he might have said. Had he propositioned Viktor? He remembers the physical ache of being in the same room as Viktor Nikiforov, knowing they had the potential to interact. What if he asked to do… things together? Chris had been familiar when they met again, but so had Viktor. Viktor had seemed confused at Yuuri’s panic.

_Oh, god…_ Viktor said _conversation_ , right? Yuuri hadn’t tried to do more?

“Viktor,” Yuuri mumbles. “Please. How bad was I?”

He feels like a prisoner waiting for sentencing. There’s a distinct sense that Viktor is making him wait on purpose, letting him panic. Is he punishing Yuuri for forgetting? Yuuri turns his head slightly, glances at Viktor. Viktor has his arms folded, hasn’t moved. Slowly—very slowly—amusement creeps into his face.

“What are you imagining?” he asks.

“You know I’m imagining all the worst things!” Yuuri says. He sits up and faces Viktor. “Just tell me.”

Viktor casts his eyes up at the ceiling. “You were very charming.”

Yuuri has seen pictures; he knows Viktor is lying. “No I wasn’t.” He was a drunk fool. But then, there were the pictures of him and Viktor dancing, weren’t there? He picks up Viktor’s phone again, finds the pictures he’s thinking of. Instead of looking at his champagne-flushed face and cringing, this time he looks at Viktor.

Viktor looks… happy.

_Was_ he charming? Was that possible?

Viktor sighs loudly and sits down on the opposite bed. He rakes a hand through his hair. “All this time I thought you remembered at least a little! What a joke. Even now, I keep thinking… you must sense… but no. You don’t at all, do you?”

“I don’t!”

Viktor smiles. “Well, you _were_ charming. In your way. There weren’t that many words, until at the end of the night…”

Yuuri gasps. “I didn’t.” He didn’t try to sleep with Viktor, there’s no way, he wouldn’t have dared even if he was too drunk to see—

“Until,” Viktor repeats, “at the end of the night… You asked me to be your coach.”

Yuuri stares. _Oh_. His coach? _He’d_ asked that? That was more daring than even propositioning Viktor.

Slowly, terribly, the past year slides into something like focus, or context. Viktor showing up. Viktor’s attitude when he arrived.

_He’d been invited_.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri says, eyes widening. He wants to hide, but there’s nowhere to hide. Viktor watches him with a half-smile, his fine-boned face unspeakably beautiful even with the low room light emphasising the lines in it. Yuuri swallows. Viktor had come not on a whim but because Yuuri had invited him. Literally. Not with Viktor’s programme but with his own words. What had looked like eccentricity now hints at something else—something that shines new light on Viktor.

“Do you regret it?” Viktor asks, head tilting.

“Regret—what?” Yuuri’s embarrassed panic fades. “I can’t believe I was so…” He swallows, looks up resolutely. “I’m embarrassed, but if that night made you come to Japan, of course I don’t regret it.”

Viktor smiles. “Good.”

For a long moment they look at each other, measuring each other up—and then Viktor is the one letting out a whine, falling back on the bed.

“So embarrassing!” he says. “All that time, and you never knew.”

“I’m sorry!” Would it be okay for Yuuri to move to that bed, maybe touch Viktor?

“I tiptoed so much. I thought maybe split personality. Something that would explain how you acted. I thought maybe it was an honour thing.”

Yuuri’s mouth quirks despite himself. “You know, I think you’ve lived in Japan for too long to fall back on Japanese stereotypes like that.”

“What other explanation was there?” Viktor asks. “You forgetting, but not questioning it when I showed up? I was a stranger to you!”

“You were never a stranger to me. What was I meant to say? My idol was standing in front of me telling me he’d be my coach. Of course I wasn’t going to say no!”

Viktor shakes his head, but he seems to be quietly laughing at the same time, and that’s good enough for Yuuri, who lets out a sigh of relief. What a ridiculous situation—but he was telling the truth earlier. He can’t regret whatever events led to Viktor joining him in Japan.

“Now I know I invited you, but I still don’t know what made you accept the invitation,” Yuuri says after a while. “You had your own career—why would you drop it all?”

“I wasn’t inspired,” Viktor says immediately, sitting up. “I couldn’t envision my next season. _You_ inspired me.”

Yuuri considers it. The banquet had happened months before Viktor joined him in Japan. “Then you were waiting for Worlds to end?”

Viktor shakes his head. “You dropped off the map. I thought we’d see each other again the next day, discuss what you’d asked—I thought you’d try to woo me.” He lets out an amused breath. “I was looking forward to it.”

Yuuri’s drunk past self had a lot to answer for. Woo Viktor? How could he possibly have seemed that confident? Of course the sober Yuuri Viktor had encountered in Japan had disappointed him—endlessly, probably.

“There was no word,” Viktor says. “It seemed like you’d reconsidered once you sobered up. I was disappointed.”

“So first I was rude enough to ask you to be my coach, and then I was rude enough to ignore you completely after.”

Viktor holds up a finger, flashes the staged smile that brings serial killers to mind. “Now you’re starting to get the picture.”

Yuuri groans.

“Then there was the video. You hadn’t forgotten after all. It seemed like an odd way to ask, but it had character. Like a movie, communicating in gestures instead of words.” Viktor sighs. “Of course, next you were barring me from your room and hiding whenever I was near.”

Yuuri thinks for a long time, trying to reimagine the past months from Viktor’s viewpoint. He’d come to Japan on Yuuri’s invitation, expecting Yuuri to be like the drunk guy in those pictures from the banquet. Viktor had asked to sleep together, insisted they should deepen their relationship. It had seemed like eccentricity at the time, but now…

Yuuri swallows hard. “Did you come to Japan expecting us to become lovers?”

“Yes.”

The simple answer shakes Yuuri. He can’t look at Viktor; instead he looks at his hands folded in his lap. _Yes_. What would have happened if they’d been on the same page? Could Yuuri have become Viktor’s lover so early on? It’s impossible to imagine.

“At first I put your behaviour down to cultural differences,” Viktor says. “Then I thought you were stringing me along.”

“Me! String _you_ along!”

“It’s more likely than you think,” Viktor says dryly—but he continues with the story. “I was angry, I admit. It took me a long time to realise your behaviour wasn’t about me. You were struggling too much to be doing anything on purpose.”

“It definitely wasn’t on purpose,” Yuuri says hopelessly, relieved Viktor had been able to make out that much. He’s not sure why his life always feels like stumbling from one disaster to the next, but it does. Of course Viktor coming to Japan hadn’t been what he thought. Of _course_ he’d been wrong about everything. Like always.

Viktor inclines his head. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I stayed?”

“You promised. I won the contest against Yurio.”

“Me leaving was never an option,” Viktor says, surprising him. “I expected us to become lovers, but I expected to be your coach as well. I wanted to see what you could do. I still do.”

Yuuri shivers. Suddenly he desperately wants to be touching Viktor. No—he wants Viktor to be touching him.

“What are you thinking?” Viktor asks, peering.

There’s no way to put it all into words; Yuuri shrugs instead. “It’s strange to think of you wanting to be my lover. That soon, I mean.” He remembers Viktor’s words all those weeks ago, when he talked about becoming Yuuri’s lover: _I would have liked it_. That didn’t sound like love, exactly.

“There was mutual attraction,” Viktor says. “Or at least, I thought there was, before you confused me. But don’t get me wrong.”

Yuuri looks up.

“I liked you then. I thought you were interesting, vivacious. I wanted you more than I’d wanted anything in a long time. But it’s nothing to the way I feel about you now.”

Air grows stagnant in Yuuri’s lungs. It takes him a long moment to remember how to breathe, but eventually he manages, his eyes locking with Viktor’s. His body feels shivery, oversensitive even though he isn’t being touched. His clothes lay against him like a caress.

“It’s not?” he says around the thickness in his throat _._

Viktor’s smile is soft, his voice softer. “Of course not. Can you doubt it, Yuuri?”

Yuuri stands, surprised when his legs hold him. He crosses the tiny distance between them and crawls into Viktor’s lap, hides his face in the crook of Viktor’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. “For coming.” _For staying_. He’s pretty sure there’s a word for this in theatre—a comedy of errors, or something. If it wasn’t for Viktor’s conviction, his willingness to see things through, would they have gotten this far? Then again, if Viktor had confronted him, they would have discovered this much earlier.

Perhaps steadfastness has its drawbacks.

Viktor sighs, breath gusting against the back of Yuuri’s neck. His fingers come up to trail along Yuuri’s spine, following the path of his breath before lightly playing with the hair at Yuuri’s nape. His lips brush against Yuuri’s ear.

“It was my pleasure, Yuuri,” he says softly.

Yuuri knows Viktor is being affectionate. He’s saying his name too often, and it’s obvious to anyone that Viktor’s time in Japan wasn’t always pleasurable. But Yuuri chooses to believe Viktor doesn’t regret it either, and that fills him with a sense of relief. He tightens his arms around him, clinging closer. Viktor’s unhurried caresses continue; it’s as if they’re breathing each other in, finally on the same page. Yuuri can’t believe his luck.

_Savour this_ , a voice inside insists. _Remember_. He will. He’ll remember this moment—and he’ll bring it out on the ice in the days to follow. And perhaps—just maybe—he’ll finish out the season. He’ll be selfish.

He doesn’t want to give Viktor back to the world just yet.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In A Coreographer's Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10822704) by [eli4nthos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eli4nthos/pseuds/eli4nthos)




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